


Darkling I Listen

by apolesen



Category: Hannibal (TV), Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Crossover, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Set after Whitechapel s03e04 and Hannibal s01e08, could count as preslash, kent/chandler pining and hannigram at canon-typical levels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-14 08:01:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13003350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolesen/pseuds/apolesen
Summary: Chandler's inquiry into the murder of an American expat in Whitechapel takes a strange turn when an FBI agent contacts him. As the case unfolds, it becomes apparent that this is not the first murder, and it will not be the last.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **A note on monikers**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> As in Whitechapel, there are multiple references to real-life cases in this fic. However, I have chosen not to use the names of any murderers. Instead, I refer to them by monikers. These nicknames, often given by the media, are not unproblematic. It could be argued that they make these killers larger than life and glorify them. However, the more I read about serial killers, the more I want these men’s names to be forgotten. While nicknames may magnify them, the use of their names - often their surnames, which are carried by their family, who are not guilty of their crimes - perpetuate a fascination with them as people, potentially turning them into heroes. Therefore, I see monikers as a good shorthand to refer to cases without granting the murderer more infamy.
> 
>  **Trigger warnings**  
>  Canon-typical violence, mental illness, mention of past (canonical) suicide

>   
>  Darkling I listen; and, for many a time  
>           I have been half in love with easeful Death,  
>  Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,  
>           To take into the air my quiet breath;  
>                  Now more than ever seems it rich to die,  
>           To cease upon the midnight with no pain,  
>                  While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad  
>                          In such an ecstasy!  
>           Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—  
>                     To thy high requiem become a sod. 
> 
> \- John Keats, _Ode to a Nightingale_  
> 

 

In the grey world of early morning, the police cordon was a strand of blaring colour. The white tent beyond was like a bleach mark. As Chandler approached, a overalled figure pushed through the slit.

‘Morning, boss,’ Miles shouted, pulling down his mask. Chandler jogged up to him. ’Better prepare yourself for this one.’

‘Is it bad?’ 

‘Yes. Even by our standards.’ He took Chandler’s coat from him and held it as he got into the overalls. 

‘Do we have an identity?’ 

‘Victim’s name is Adrian Halifax. Art dealer, US national. Has a gallery nearby.’

‘Who found the body?’ 

‘One of the homeless people who crash in the park,’ Miles said. ‘Poor bugger.’ 

Chandler pulled up his mask and Miles handed over the coat to a nearby PC. Miles entered the tent first. Llewellyn got to her feet. 

‘Morning,’ she said brightly. ‘Uncanny, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever seen this. Sorry about the smell. The killer severed the intestines.’

Chandler looked at the scene before him.The sight was like some grotesque reflection in a house of mirrors. Everything was in the wrong place. The smell hung miasmic around him. He did not even will it - his body turned on its own accord and forced him through the slit of the tent. The only comfort was that he managed to tear off the mask before he was sick.

***

A few hours later, the stench of the corpse scrubbed off his skin but still clinging to his senses, Chandler set up the boards. The team was hovering around him, waiting for the briefing to start.

‘Alright,’ he said, turning around and putting the cap on the pen. ‘Our victim is Adrian Halifax. He was an art-dealer, originally from California. He spent most of his adult life in Baltimore before moving to the UK four years ago. He was found early this morning. The mutilations are extensive. Hands and feet severed and swapped around. The left hand at the right arm, and so on. The trunk has been emptied of internal organs which have then been reordered, upside down.’ He indicated the sketch Llewellyn had made them. ‘It’s an accurate representation, according to Dr Llewellyn, though the liver is missing. The digestive tract has been turned upside down - the intestines are in the chest cavity. The heart and lungs are in the pelvic area.’ 

‘So what’s it saying?’ Miles asked. ‘That he’s talking shit?’ 

‘Possibly,’ Chandler said. ‘There is no sign of strangulation, blunt force trauma or puncture-wounds to any of the vital organs. Dr Llewellyn thinks the cause of death was blood-loss or shock, likely brought on from the removal of the organs. The hands and feet were sawn off shortly after death.’ 

‘You mean he was alive for that?’ Kent said. 

‘It seems that way,’ Chandler said. ‘Mansell, witnesses?’ 

‘There’s just the bloke who found the body, and he was off his tits,’ Mansell said. ‘The police didn’t believe him at first when he started rambling.’ 

‘CCTV?’ 

‘The park isn’t covered, and only one entrance is in range,’ Miles said. 

‘I haven’t found any footage of the victim entering,’ said Riley. ‘He must have come in through one of the other gates.’ 

Chandler nodded, trying to hide the sense of defeat. 

‘Kent, have you had any luck with tracking down any family?’ 

‘There’s no one in London, as far as I can tell,’ Kent answered. ‘The closest things seems to be his PA. He has an ex-wife in Baltimore, though.’ 

‘I think we can rule out the ex-wife,’ Miles said. ‘Unless she’s a weight-lifter. Doing something like that – that takes strength.’ 

‘Let’s check that she’s in the States and not here,’ Chandler said. ‘Kent, you get onto that. Riley, I want you to talk to the PA and the people at the gallery. Mansell, take over the CCTV work.’ 

There was a flurry of movement as everyone got to their work. Only Mansell did not move at once. His eyes were fixed on the crime scene photos. 

‘Mansell, snap out of it,’ Miles barked. 

‘Sorry, skip,’ he said, shaking himself. ‘It’s just…’ He gestured vaguely at the board. ‘Can’t help wondering what you have to do to make someone think you deserve that.’ 

Chandler turned back to look at the photos. 

‘Not you too,’ Miles muttered. 

‘Mansell has a point,’ Chandler said, quite enough that only his sergeant could hear him. ‘Why the overkill?’ 

Miles shrugged. 

‘No idea.’ 

Chandler bit his lip. 

‘Do you think there might be an organised crime aspect to this?’ 

‘Why do you say that?’ 

‘I don’t know. Perhaps he… turned?’ 

‘It’s a pun?’ 

‘I’m just trying to keep an open mind,’ Chandler said. ‘This type of mutilation is rare. It’s personal. It may be about the killer, if it’s a single perpetrator, in which case we could be looking at the beginning of a series. Or it could be about the victim. Perhaps someone wanted to make an example of him.’

Miles made a guttural ‘hm’. 

‘I suppose it’s worth looking into,’ he said. ‘Where do you want to start? Whitechapel gangs?’ 

‘We can’t rule out that this is something connected to his past in America,’ Chandler said. ‘Will you get in touch with the Baltimore police? Perhaps they recognise it.’ 

‘I’ll get right onto it,’ Miles said, already moving towards his computer. 

‘There’s no rush,’ Chandler said. ‘Baltimore’s five hours behind. It’s still the middle of the night.’ 

‘Might as well get it over with.’ 

Chandler could not fault him for that. He moved into his office, got his notebook out and mulled over what he had seen. The taste of bile still clung to his uvula, but it was more in his mind. It was not really the mutilations or even the smell that had upset him. Something about the way the body was displayed… He hoped his hunch about organised crime was right. The alternative was far worse. Slowly, he started making notes, writing down the basic information about the victim. He took his time forming the letters, watching the ink seep from the nib and sink into the paper. At some point, someone – he did not know who – came in and placed a cup of tea on his desk. He murmured ‘thank you’ and continued his work. It was like setting up the boards, but only for his benefit. Perhaps one day that notebook would end up in Ed’s archive. 

A knock on the door woke him from his reverie. 

‘Yes?’ he said, looking up. Kent was at the door, looking far more wide-eyed than he usually did. 

‘There’s a man on the phone for you, sir,’ he said. ‘From America.’ He paused and added: ‘He says he’s from the FBI.’

***

Twenty-four hours later, Miles stood waiting when Chandler arrived to the police station.

‘The Yanks are here,’ he said, falling in step with his boss. 

‘How many of them are there?’ Chandler asked. Miles made it sound a bit like an invasion force. 

‘Two, although I heard them talking about involving their own forensics team,’ Miles said. ‘Nothing British is ever good enough for them.’ 

‘We’ll just have to be gracious hosts,’ Chandler said as they mounted the stairs. 

‘Have they even told you why they’re here?’ 

‘Only that it seems to be connected.’ 

‘To what, though?’ Miles muttered.

When they made it into the investigation room, Chandler started. There was someone in his office. 

‘I thought it was best to show him in, boss,’ Miles said apologetically. 

‘Of course,’ he murmured and quickened his pace. It was a relief of sorts that the guest had not sat down or rounded the desk. Instead he stood still, looking out of the window. When Chandler opened the door, he looked over at him. 

‘Detective Inspector Chandler?’ he said. 

‘Yes. Welcome to London.’ They shook hands.

‘FBI agent Jack Crawford,’ the guest said. ‘Head of the behavioural science unit. I know you by reputation, DI Chandler.’ 

Chandler chuckled.

‘Not the best aspect of me.’ 

Crawford shrugged. 

‘I wouldn’t say so. Killers get away. It’s hard but it happens. You can only control your own part in it.’

‘Very kind,’ Chandler murmured half-heartedly. ‘Have you been offered tea?’ 

‘Coffee, if it’s not too much trouble,’ Crawford said. ‘We’ve had a long flight.’ 

‘Of course. Please, make yourself comfortable.’ 

He opened the door and stuck his head out. 

‘Kent?’ 

‘Yes, sir?’ Kent said, looking up eagerly. 

‘Could you do a coffee-run?’ 

‘Of course, sir.’ He had already put down his file. Chandler retreated into his office, closing the door carefully. Crawford had sat down in one of the visitor chairs and was watching him patiently. Chandler rounded the desk and sat down. He hesitated where to start. What did one say when an FBI agent turned up in one’s office, on the wrong side of the Atlantic?

‘Whatever your interest in the Halifax murder is, it must be important,’ he observed. 

Crawford nodded. 

‘If it’s what we think it is, it couldn’t be more important.’ 

‘And why is that?’ 

‘Have you ever heard of the Chesapeake Ripper?’ Crawford asked. Chandler’s hesitation lasted long enough that he took it for a no. ‘He’s been active around the Chesapeake Bay, mainly Maryland, for about five years. Thirteen confirmed victims.’ He pulled out a stack of photographs and handed them over. Chandler looked at them, then swallowed hard and handed them back. 

‘There are some similarities.’ 

‘That’s what we thought.’ Crawford put away the gory photos again. ‘When were the mutilations on Halifax done?’ 

‘Our pathologist thinks they were done before death.’ 

‘Were there organs missing?’ 

‘Yes. The liver.’ 

Crawford nodded. 

‘It sounds like our man.’ 

‘Do you really think he’d move across the Atlantic?’ 

‘People do,’ Crawford said. ‘It’s not impossible. And if I am right, there are more bodies to come. He always kills in threes or fours.’ 

Chandler felt a chill go through him, then his muscles tightening. The weight of a schedule was descending on him. 

‘If this turns out to be the case, we’ll provide you with our files. We don’t have any jurisdiction here, but we’d be happy to help.’ 

‘Thank you.’ 

As if to give him an out, Kent entered the incident room with a number of take-away cups. 

‘It looks like the coffee’s here,’ Chandler said, standing up. ‘Shall we step outside?’ 

Crawford stood up too. 

‘I understand you came with a colleague?’ Chandler asked. 

‘Yes. I’ll introduce you.’ 

When they stepped out into the room, Chandler wondered how he had missed the other guest. He was standing at the whiteboards, arms tightly folded over his chest, as if warming his hands under them. There was a thin sheen of perspiration on his face. 

‘Will.’ The man turned at Crawford’s call, then caught sight of Chandler. ‘Inspector, this is Will Graham.’ 

He let his arms fall to his sides and rubbed his right palm against his trousers before he offered his hand. It was strangely warm in Chandler’s grip. 

‘DI Chandler.’ 

‘Thanks for having us,’ Graham said. When they let go of one another, he pushed his glasses up. Not looking anywhere in particular, he said: ‘It’s him.’ 

‘I beg your pardon?’ 

Graham gestured towards the photographs. 

‘It’s him. The Chesapeake Ripper. I’m almost certain.’ Not waiting for a reaction, he asked: ‘Could I see the body?’ 

‘We can arrange it,’ Chandler said, taken aback by this man. ‘But first we should brief my team.’ 

Miles, who was standing just beside him now, muttered: 

‘God help us.’ 

The next moment it became obvious what had prompted it. The glass doors to the incident room was pushed over and Ed Buchan half-ran down the steps, glasses dangling from their chain. 

‘I heard we had visitors,’ he said, slowing to a fast walk. Chandler floundered for a brief moment, not knowing quite how to handle this. 

‘Yes.’ Turning to their guests, he said: ‘Gentlemen, this is Edward Buchan, our researcher. Ed, this is Agent Crawford and Agent Graham.’ 

As he had expected he would, Ed shone up. 

‘It’s an honour!’ He shook Crawford’s hand cordially and, to Chandler’s surprise, Graham’s too. The latter looked quite uncomfortable, and Chandler felt for the man. 

‘We’re just about to have a briefing,’ he said to Ed under his breath. ‘You can sit in, but don’t interrupt.’ 

Ed gave a small sigh. 

‘I’ll do my best.’ 

Chandler left him to settle in a nearby chair and made his way to the boards. Crawford was already standing at them, looking more like a general at a war-council than a detective. His colleague was perching on Kent’s desk, his arms crossed again. Chandler’s team took their usual places, curiously eyeing the newcomers. 

‘Let’s cut to the chase,’ Chandler said, looking around. ‘This is Jack Crawford and Will Graham, of the FBI’s behavioural science unit.’ 

‘What’s that when it’s at home?’ Miles asked. 

‘In a nutshell, it’s profiling,’ Ed said. Miles snorted. Chandler threw them both a look and continued. 

‘They are here because they have reason to believe the murder of Adrian Halifax is connected to an ongoing investigation of theirs.’ He turned to Crawford. ‘Agent Crawford?’ 

He stepped forward. 

‘The MO of this case is surprisingly close to the case of the Chesapeake Ripper.’ At the moniker, Ed gave a soft ‘oh’. Chandler saw how Kent’s eyes grew, Riley bit her pen, Mansell lean forward a little, and Miles’ jaw stiffening. ‘We have thirteen confirmed victims in the Chesapeake Bay area. If this is him, our chances of catching him just went up.’ 

‘So what’s his MO?’ Kent asked. Graham spoke, not moving from his perch. 

‘The Ripper tortures his victims to death and takes anatomical souvenirs. Invariably there are internal organs missing. Sometimes, also limbs.’ 

‘Can we _not_ call him “the Ripper”?’ Miles said. The reaction was delayed, but Graham made a face, which Chandler thought showed embarrassment, and said: 

‘Alright. The Chesapeake Ripper.’ 

‘Dr Llewellyn thought Adrian Halifax’s injuries were inflicted before he died,’ Mansell said, looking a little green. ‘She said he died of blood-loss or shock.’

‘Both would be consistent with death by torture,’ Graham said. 

‘Hold on a moment,’ Ed said. Chandler sighed. 

‘Ed…’ 

‘No, please,’ he said, getting up and stepping forward. ‘I have followed this case for some time…’ 

‘It’s an ongoing investigation,’ Crawford said. ‘There are things we haven’t released to the public.’ 

‘But is it not the case that the Chesapeake Ripper’s victims are found posed?’ Ed asked. ‘Halifax’s body was arranged, yes, but he was left where he fell. Your murderer moves his bodies.’ 

‘Not in the case of the eighth body,’ Graham said. 

‘Who was killed inside, not outdoors in a park, in full view.’ 

‘Perhaps he can’t move a body here in London,’ Chandler said. ‘He must use a car for that kind of thing, mustn’t he?’ 

‘Yes,’ Crawford said. ‘Although I doubt that’s where he does the killing.’ 

‘For the kind of thing he does, he needs somewhere undisturbed,’ Graham added. 

For a moment, the image of Mary Kelly’s body flashed before Chandler’s eyes. He shook himself. 

‘American cities are built for cars,’ he said. ‘London isn’t.’ 

Ed was still looking at Crawford.

‘With all due respect, Halifax being killed outdoors, where he was found, is not nothing. Surely that is enough of a difference…?’ 

‘If the victim wasn’t from Baltimore, I’d agree,’ Crawford said. ‘But he is. The coincidence is too great.’ 

‘And if this is him, we have something we didn’t have before,’ Graham said. ‘We have a crime-scene that can’t have been cleaned up. You can’t scrub down grass.’ 

Chandler decided to step in. 

‘We’ll keep looking at Halifax’s associates,’ he said, ‘but we take the Chesapeake angle into account. Riley, Mansell, when you interview his friends and colleagues, I want you to check if anyone of them has a connection to that area.’ 

‘He likely doesn’t know the killer,’ Crawford said. ‘We have been through all the social contacts of the earlier victims. Nothing we found connects them.’ 

‘So how does he chose his victims?’ Riley asked. ‘He must have a type.’ 

‘Not strictly,’ Graham said, his tone sharp, not to her but the thought of the murderer. ‘His victimology is not based on appearance, sex, race. It’s something else.’ He looked at the photographs of what was left of Halifax. ‘He feels they deserve it. He’s punishing them for their insolence.’ 

The silence stretched out. It could not be more than a few seconds, but it thundered against Chandler’s eardrums. It was Graham himself who broke it by shaking himself. 

‘Could I please see the body?’ he said instead. 

Chandler nodded. 

‘Kent, get to it.’ 

‘Yessir.’ 

‘Ed.’ Chandler turned to the researcher. ‘In my office, please.’ 

He followed him, darting through the office door and starting to speak before he had even closed it. 

‘Joe, forgive me, but…’ 

‘I told you not to interrupt,’ Chandler said. ‘And in response, you question the people from the FBI who are here to help us!’ He could not keep the incredulity out of his voice. 

‘I had good reason to,’ Ed said, pulling himself up. ‘I wanted them to be absolutely sure.’ 

‘Do you honestly think they’d have flown halfway across the world if they weren’t?’ Chandler said. 

‘I wouldn’t rule it out,’ Ed said, sounding convinced. ‘As I said, I have followed this case. Agent Crawford has been in charge of it from the very beginning. He is desperate to get a break.’ 

‘Ed, tread carefully,’ Chandler told him. 

‘I am not accusing him of anything. But if this is the Chesapeake Ripper, we need to be careful. He said thirteen victims, did he not?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Did he tell you that he kills in groups?’ 

Chandler did not respond, surprised by this question. 

‘What he didn’t mention was that victim number nine was an FBI trainee,’ Ed said, looking him in the eye now. ‘It’s the only one firmly outside the pattern of three or four kills a time in a short period of time. It’s also the only case where they didn’t find the body. All the found was her arm, severed before her death, two years after she disappeared.’ He stepped closer. ‘I challenged him because this killer is dangerous. More so than the ones we have come up against. And I do not want any of you to be hurt if he is right.’ 

Chandler took an instinctive step back. The Ripper had meant to kill him. He almost had killed Miles. The Krays had attacked Kent, and made an attempt on both his and Miles’ lives. He could not take any of that again. 

‘Thank you, Ed,’ he said softly. 

Ed stepped back as well, nodded and showed himself out.

***

It was raining when Chandler stepped out of the station around lunchtime.

‘Sorry about the weather,’ he said as he pulled up his collar. Crawford did the same. 

‘It wouldn’t be England if it wasn’t raining.’ 

‘Well, I’m sure we can find some appropriately disgusting sandwiches, if you’re interested in local cuisine,’ Chandler said. ‘Or we can go to the more than decent deli.’ 

‘The deli, I think.’ 

‘Besides, it’s past the crime-scene,’ Chandler said.

They walked in silence until they got to the park. Crawford paused at the iron fence. 

‘Do they lock the gates at night?’ 

‘Strictly they should,’ Chandler said. ‘But the lock was damaged a week ago.’ 

Crawford frowned and caught his eye. 

‘Connected?’ 

‘I couldn’t say,’ Chandler said. ‘It might as well just have been petty vandalism.’ 

‘Hm.’ 

They entered the park and stopped at the distant corner where yesterday there had been a white tent. Crawford’s eyes scanned the ground and looked around. 

‘A blind-spot?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘We’ve never caught a picture of him,’ Crawford said. ‘He knows what to look for.’ He turned around, still looking upwards. ‘It must be dark here too.’ 

‘Wouldn’t he need light for the kind of thing he does?’ Chandler asked. ‘If for no other reason…’ He trailed off. 

‘Than to see their faces?’ He nodded. ‘Yes, I’d think so. Perhaps he had a flashlight with him, or a head-lamp. Something small enough that it wouldn’t have attracted attention, but bright enough that he can see by it.’ 

They did not stay much longer. Soon, Crawford nodded and put his hands in his pockets. 

‘Will will want to see it,’ he said as they walked out of the park. ‘But I’ll take him. He works best without an audience.’ 

Chandler could not help asking. 

‘What is his position in your unit?’ 

‘He doesn’t really have one,’ Crawford said. ‘He’s not a regular FBI agent, just seconded to me. He usually teaches at the Academy.’ 

‘So what does he do?’ Chandler asked. He realised it sounded rude, but he did not know how else to ask. 

‘He’s a profiler,’ Crawford said. ‘But he’s nothing like any other profiler. He sees the world in a different way than the rest of us. And he doesn’t have a margin of error. I’ve never heard him be wrong about anything.’ 

‘Never?’ 

‘Not in terms of profiling,’ Crawford said. ‘From what I understand, his mind is wired in a different way than most’s. “Pure empathy”. That’s what I’ve heard it called. He can see through anyone’s eyes.’ He looked over at Chandler and spotted his frown. ‘I know how it sounds, but it’s all true.’ 

Chandler did not know quite what to say. Something about Graham made him uneasy, but something else made him quite like him. He was difficult to pin down. 

‘But you do profiling too?’ he asked. 

‘It’s part of the job.’ 

‘What do you make of the Chesapeake Ripper?’ 

Crawford drew a long breath, as if gathering himself. 

‘He’s in the forties. He has been doing this for some time. I am sure there are bodies we don’t know about. Somewhere else, perhaps, or disposed of in a different way than the Chesapeake victims. The mutilations gives his attacks a sense of chaos, but at its core, it is methodical, organised and, crucially, professionally done. The precise extraction of organs makes us think he’s a surgeon. I think he has a steady, respectable job. Considering when the murders take place, he has at least occasional weekdays and nights off. He has access to a place to do his killing, and a vehicle to move the bodies. He is aware of how to not leave forensic traces.’ 

’Isn’t everyone nowadays?’ Chandler asked.

‘This is more than pouring bleach on a crime-scene,’ Crawford said. ‘There has never been as much as a rootless hair found. He knows what he’s doing.’ 

‘So he plans his attacks.’ 

‘Very much so. How he picks his victims we don’t know, but you heard Will’s theories. He is raining down justice on them.’ 

‘Is he a visionary killer, then?’ Chandler asked. ‘Does he think he is doing God’s work?’ 

‘More like he is God,’ Crawford answered. ‘But I don’t think he’s delusional. He’s perfectly sane. He simply doesn’t care about others.’

‘So what about family? Relationships?’ 

‘I don’t think so,’ Crawford said. ‘But I may be wrong.He hides who he truly is behind a mask. Perhaps part of that mask is a long-term relationship. On the other hand, maybe he does not want anyone getting too close.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I can’t seem to pin that part of him down,’ he admitted. ‘Most serial killings have a sexual element, but I have never seen any indication that that’s the case.’ 

‘Just because there is nothing obviously sexual about the attacks doesn’t mean that they don’t have a sexual meaning to the killer.’ 

‘I know,’ Crawford said. ‘He’s likely a sadist. But…’ He sighed in frustration. ‘At times, he’s like the rest of them. Just another psychopath. Then sometimes…’ 

They came to a halt. 

‘What?’ Chandler said. Crawford shrugged. 

‘He’s something very different.’

***

Time passed at a snail’s pace. The routine felt gruelling, because it did not lead anywhere. The door-to-door turned up nothing. Friends and acquaintances were interviewed and cleared. CCTV was checked and dismissed. Chandler felt a little sorry for the Americans. They had come to London thinking there would be a breakthrough, but instead they were left waiting, rolling their thumbs. They could not help with the inquiries, so spent most of their time in the incident room, going through their own investigation notes with the detectives. When the forensic report came back, Chandler saw raw frustration on Crawford’s face. There was nothing that could be definitely connected to the killer. It had rained between the murder and the discovery, washing the body clean of any clues and leaving the ground soft and muddy.

On the third day of the Americans’ visit, Crawford’s phone dinged. Chandler spotted how the line between his eyebrows deepened. 

‘Anything the matter?’ he asked as Crawford put the phone back in his pocket. 

‘My superiors want to talk to me.’ 

Chandler sympathised. 

‘Use my office,’ he said, unable to think of anything else to do to help. Crawford nodded thanks and headed for the glassed-off office. Chandler went over to the whiteboards, straightening Riley’s stapler on the way over. Graham was standing where he usually stood, arms folded and his chin in his hand. They stood in silence for a while. 

‘Are they ordering you back?’ Chandler asked. Through the glass of his office, he could see Crawford pacing back and forth, clearly arguing with the person on the other end of the line. 

‘Jack, at least,’ Graham said. ‘He has other cases.’ 

‘You don’t?’ 

Graham shrugged. 

‘I think I can persuade Jack to let me stay.’ 

Chandler did not know what to say to that. Graham was not an easily conversed man. 

‘I’m sorry this hasn’t been the break you were hoping for,’ he said. 

Graham shrugged. 

‘It could still be.’ 

‘If he were to kill again, what’s to say he won’t do it in the States?’ Chandler asked. ‘Perhaps he was just here on holiday.’ 

Graham shook his head. 

‘No. He’ll kill the rest of the sounder here. He’ll want them in the same place.’ 

‘“Sounder”?’

‘Just how I think of them,’ he said, then corrected himself: ‘How I think he thinks of them.’ 

The door to the DI’s office opened. Crawford’s steps were heavy as he entered the incident room. 

‘There’s been a break in another case. I have to ship out.’ 

‘Which case?’ Graham asked. 

‘The Clarington abductions.’ 

‘Then you won’t need me.’

‘Do you want to stay?’ 

‘If the DI doesn’t mind,’ Graham said. ‘I think I could make myself useful.’ 

‘We can’t be sure there’ll be any more killings,’ Chandler said. ‘I don’t want to waste your time.’ 

‘There will be,’ Graham said, sounding convinced. 

Crawford sighed and pulled on his coat.

‘Fine. You can stay, but if there’s nothing by the end of the week, I want you back.’ 

Graham nodded his assent. Crawford turned to Chandler and extended his hand. Chandler shook it. 

‘Thank you for having us.’ 

‘Thank _you_ ,’ Chandler said. ‘You’ve been a great help. I’d be happy to keep you abreast of events.’ 

‘I’d appreciate it.’ Crawford put his hands in his pockets. ‘Well, I need to pack. Happy hunting, DI Chandler.’ 

He nodded, and they shook hands again. He watched as he left the incident room. The doors closed behind him, leaving Chandler standing at the boards with Graham in strange silence.

***

How he had hoped that Graham had been wrong. That was Chandler’s first thought when the sound of the phone woke him. His hand reached for the phone as if it had a mind of its own.

‘Yes?’ he muttered. 

‘Sorry to wake you, sir.’ It was Riley’s voice. ‘But there’s been another murder.’ 

Chandler sat up, not even surprised. 

‘Where?’ 

‘Christ Church.’ 

‘I’ll be there.’ 

He dressed in the dark, the routine so ingrained he did not need to switch off the light. As he left the flat, he got his mobile out and flicked through the contacts. After only two rings, the line opened. 

‘DI Chandler?’ Graham spoke quietly, but he sounded awake. 

‘We have another body,’ Chandler said, locking his flat. ‘I thought you might want to see the crime-scene.’ 

‘Yes. Where is it?’ 

‘I’ll come pick you up.’ 

The hotel was only a few minutes away, but Graham was already standing outside when Chandler pulled up. 

‘Morning,’ he said and got into the passenger seat. 

‘Good morning,’ Chandler said. ‘Sorry to have woken you.’ 

‘You didn’t, really,’ Graham said. ‘I was drifting. I don’t sleep much.’ 

Chandler pulled into traffic again. Even in the middle of the night, driving through London would take time. The first few minutes, he was content to concentrate on driving, but increasingly, the silence became uncomfortable. There was something about Graham’s presence. The air around him seemed to vibrate. Even if his eyes were turned away, Chandler felt watched. 

‘I can’t help being curious,’ he said finally. ‘How did you get involved with the FBI? How does one go from teaching to law enforcement?’ 

‘It was the other way around,’ Graham said. ‘I was a police officer. Then I started doing this.’

‘Oh.’ 

He wanted to ask why, but he knew better. It was difficult not to notice the way Graham’s eyes darted around, never settling on anyone’s face. He could not name what was wrong with him, but there was something.

‘How long have you been involved in the Chesapeake inquiry?’ he asked instead. 

‘Not as long as it feels,’ Graham said. ‘I only got close to it just before the last sounder. It just seems to take up a lot of space in my head.’ 

The light ahead turned red, and they slowed to a stop. Chandler looked over at his passenger. He was leaning against the window in a way that made him wonder for a moment whether he had fallen asleep. He moved his head a little, changing the impression. Nevertheless, Chandler reflected that the sickly look he had thought may be down to jetlag and insomnia when he arrived as deeply etched on his face. For some reason, that realisation made him ask the question. 

‘What if he’s never brought to justice?’ 

‘If he’s not found?’ 

‘I was rather thinking if he slips through your fingers,’ Chandler said. Having voiced that scenario, he felt he needed to explain. ‘A few months ago, a suspect committed suicide right in front of me and I couldn’t stop it. Even if there’s no doubt he did it… he’ll never answer for it now.’ 

Graham sighed. Ahead, the light changed. Chandler drove slower now, wanting to prolong the conversation. 

‘Have you heard of the Minnesota Shrike?’ Graham asked. 

‘No.’ He could not help thinking that Ed would know. 

‘It’s the stupid name they gave him,’ Graham explained. ‘For no reason - the victim it was a reference to wasn’t even his.’ He stopped himself and got back on track. ‘It was a case of multiple abductions. We only had one body, but it was clear the rest were dead too. When I got to the suspect’s house, someone had tipped him off. He had already killed his wife and was about to kill his daughter.’ 

‘What happened?’ Chandler asked. 

‘He cut her throat, and I opened fire.’ 

Chandler was grateful that they approached another red light. Nevertheless, he stopped a little more abruptly than he usually did. 

‘And then?’ 

Graham shrugged. 

‘The girl survived. I had a colleague with me – a doctor – and he saved her life. As for Hobbs… I emptied the entire clip into his chest.’ He spoke dispassionately, eyes fixed on some point outside the car. ‘I can’t pretend that helps with the sleeping.’ 

Chandler did not have to ask. He was not sure how many bullets a clip held, but it was clear what the outcome had been. The traffic light turned green and he drove down Commercial Street faster now. Straight ahead, the lit forensic tent shone against Christ Church’s white façade.

Miles was waiting by the curb, face half-buried in his collar. When Chandler climbed out of the car, he straightened up and stepped forward. 

‘The victim is Tracy Matthews, twenty-eight years old. She worked in a café. One of those fancy hipster ones.’ 

‘That feels like a jump from art-dealer,’ Chandler said. Graham had clearly overheard them. 

‘Class doesn’t play any role in his selection,’ he said. ‘If you’ve made yourself deserving of punishment, he gives it to you.’ 

‘What does “deserving of punishment” mean?’ Miles asked. ‘There are plenty of worse people around here than her. She doesn’t even have a record, just a speeding-ticket from two years ago.’ 

‘I think it’s more petty than that,’ Graham said, pulling his collar up against the cold. ‘He’s not interested in morality. It’s not about going after child-molesters or drug-dealers or abusive foster-parents. Evil isn’t the problem. It’s rudeness he doesn’t like.’ 

Miles made a face, but did not say anything. As they headed towards the tent, Kent caught up with them. His hair was more unruly than usual and Chandler thought his shirt might have been buttoned up wrong. He had clearly gotten ready in a hurry. Nevertheless, he did not seem self-conscious when he handed Chandler a take-away cup. 

‘I thought you’d want coffee instead of tea at this hour, sir.’ 

‘Thank you, Kent.’ 

He glanced at Graham, clearly surprised at his presence and perhaps a little embarrassed that he had not thought to get him a drink. Graham did not seem to notice, but had lengthened his stride. Chandler registered how Miles patted Kent on the back with a fleeting, fatherly smile, and sent him on his way. He wished he could concentrate on his team and their interactions that seemed so ordinary. Instead, he followed Graham. 

‘I’d like to see the crime-scene,’ he said. ‘Alone.’ 

‘That’s out of the question,’ Chandler said. ‘You can come in with me, but I can’t dismiss forensics for your sake.’ 

Graham took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. 

‘No problem.’ There was not much feeling except exhaustion in his voice. 

They stepped into the tent. Llewellyn was kneeling on the ground and looked up, a smile in her eyes. 

‘Welcome,’ she said and pushed herself up. ‘It’s not pretty, I’m afraid.’ 

They stood in silence, watching the scene in front of them. The woman lay spread-eagled on the steps, her long hair fanning around her head like a halo. Her button-down shirt and coat were both open, but the impression was not nudity. 

‘The killer used a saw to get through the sternum,’ Llewellyn said. She looked at Graham. ‘I agree with your pathologists, this is done by a professional. The ribs were spread quite brutally, almost like he grabbed them and ripped sideways. As you can see, the lungs are missing.’ 

Chandler swallowed hard. More than anything, the body looked wrong, almost absurd. Something about the gaping chest made him think of a bird. Then there was the sight of the woman’s heart, lying limply against the inside of her chest. He started feeling light-headed. 

Graham did not blink for far too long. Then he exhaled and relaxed. 

‘It can’t be anyone else,’ he said. ‘It’s him.’

***

Chandler left the crime-scene as dawn broke. Curious onlookers and some journalists with their ear to the ground had started amassing, wondering about the police cordons. Leaving Kent in charge, Chandler drove the short distance to the police station. He left his briefcase in his office and, without lingering, headed towards the loos. The feeling of dirt caked against his skin was almost unbearable. When he got his shirt off, he could not see anything – he never could. Nevertheless, he washed thoroughly. The image of Tracy Matthews’ empty chest-cavity sat behind his eyes, reflecting onto his eyelids every time he blinked. With every blink, the presence of the image seemed stronger. As if it would get rid of it, he exhaled sharply and leaned against the sink, hands on each side of it. He stared at the enamel and tried to concentrate on breathing. He was struck by the realisation that he must look much the same inside as Tracy Matthews had. It made the panicked knot in his chest tighten.

The door opened, and he jumped. He braced himself for the awkwardness of being found standing shirtless in the gents’. Then his mind caught up and realised it was Miles. By the way he was looking at him he knew he was not there to answer a call of nature. 

‘Miles.’ 

Miles nodded in greeting.

‘Socos are done with the scene. They’ve started opening up the road again. I’ve sent Riley and a couple of uniforms to talk to Tracy Matthews’ parents. Mansell and Kent are talking to the people who found the body. After that they’ll move onto CCTV. The press officer is drafting a statement. They’ve agreed not to put any details about the connection with the Halifax murder.’

‘You didn’t have to deal with that,’ Chandler said as he pulled on a clean shirt. He could not hide his relief not to have to talk to the press officer. Miles shrugged. 

‘You’ve been in here for the better part of an hour,’ he said. When he spoke again, there was no denying the concern in his voice. ‘Are you alright, sir?’ 

Chandler sighed. 

‘Yes. I think so.’ He dressed quickly - cuff-links, tie, waistcoat, jacket. When he was done, Miles repeated: 

‘You think so?’ 

He paused and sighed. He tried to find a way to express the strange feelings the sight of that body had awoken him, but he could not put it into words. 

‘This case,’ he said instead.

‘Is yours,’ Miles said. ‘Not the Americans’.’ 

‘I don’t have an inferiority complex,’ Chandler said. ‘Although I get jealous at the thought of the FBI’s resources.’ 

‘Well, sir, they’ll never know the joy of solving a kebab shop stabbing,’ Miles said. 

Chandler smiled, appreciating the humour. It did not last long, though. He felt the smile slip. 

‘There was something Graham said.’ He twisted his cufflink so it was properly aligned. ‘He told me he’d shot someone. A suspect.’ 

Miles frowned, understanding where this was going. 

‘He’d been investigating him, and when they caught up with him he was trying to kill his daughter, so Graham shot him dead.’ 

Miles sighed. 

‘That’s the problem with carrying a gun. You’re likely to use it.’ 

Chandler shrugged. 

‘I don’t know if it’s comparable,’ he said, ‘but all those murderers who slipped out of our hands… It feels strange to imagine someone shooting their suspect, knowing what it feels not to be able to bring them to trial.’ 

Miles thought about it. 

‘If you’d had a gun when we went into that flat,’ he said. ‘When the Ripper stabbed me. What would you have done?’ 

Chandler looked at his hands. He thought of the pistol that had been left for him when the Krays had shot up the pub where they had set to meet him. Sometimes when he remembered it, he thought he could still feel the rebound in his wrists. He had not even hit anyone, only the wall. 

‘I suppose I’d have shot him.’ 

‘At least you don’t have to deal with that.’ 

Chandler smiled morosely. 

‘That’s true.’ 

‘Come on, sir,’ Miles said and cocked his head. ‘Time to get to work.’


	2. Chapter 2

Chandler had almost finished assembling a new board when the door opened and Ed Buchan made his way inside. 

‘Hiya, Ed,’ Mansell said. ‘Long time no see. I was starting to think you’d died in a box avalanche.’ 

‘Not yet,’ Ed said tersely, depositing the files he was carrying on Kent’s desk. ‘Apologies that this has taken me so long, Joe. Finding precedents to this case has proven difficult.’ 

Chandler put the cap on the whiteboard marker. 

‘What have you got for me?’ 

‘An assortment of things. I really can’t think of anything like this case. Now.’ He put his glasses on. ‘I refrained form bringing you anything on Jack the Ripper. You know that material well enough.’ 

‘Too well,’ Chandler admitted. 

‘I think there are some similarities,’ Ed said. ‘Surgical trophies, abdominal mutilations and posing being the most obvious ones. But there are plenty of differences which might make it an unworkable parallel. The Whitechapel murderer focused mainly on pelvic organs. There is an undeniable sexual aspect to the murders. The Chesapeake killer’s selection of organs is much much diversified. It does not really seem to be about sex.’

He picked up the top file. 

‘The Black Dahlia murder,’ he explained, handing it over. ‘Elizabeth Short, a young woman who came to Los Angeles to seek fame and happiness, found bisected on the side of the pavement, just like the Chesapeake Ripper’s tenth victim. There is the same flare for theatrics.’ 

Chandler opened the file and caught sight of the post-mortem photographs. Making a face, he closed it and put it aside to read later. A new file was thrust into his hands. 

‘The Green River Killer, who posed some of his victims. One woman was found laid out on her back, a paper bag on her head, hands crossed over a bottle of wine. The East Side Killer, also from Washington State - a necrophile who publicly posed the women he killed.’ 

Chandler flicked through the files. 

‘These posings aren’t as public as the Chesapeake Ripper’s. There’s a big difference between leaving a body in the woods or by the bins and leaving it on the steps of a church.’ 

‘Posings are seldom so obvious,’ Ed said. ‘The more elaborate ones are found indoors, for instance in the victim’s home. Take the rather unpleasantly named Gay Slayer – apologies. He would humiliate his victims by leaving them in compromising positions with condoms in their mouths. At one point he even included the victim’s cat - he didn’t want people to think he was an animal-lover, which the papers had been saying. Anyhoo. Perhaps we should use the term “displays” rather than “posings” for the Chesapeake Ripper.’ 

‘And did you find any displays?’ Chandler asked. 

Ed grinned and picked up the final file. 

‘I knew that the international section would pay off.’ 

He waited until Chandler opened the file, like someone presenting a gift and waiting to explain their reasoning. 

‘The Monster of Florence?’ 

‘Not to be confused with _Il Mostro_ , a killer of couples from the late sixties to the mid-eighties. This one–’ He tapped the file ‘–is sometimes called the Botticelli killer. I’m sure you see why.’ 

Chandler picked up the photograph. He had never seen something quite so strange. 

‘This is from the _Primavera_ ,’ he said. ‘Zephyrus and Chloris, I think?’ 

Ed nodded. 

‘Recreated in flesh.’ 

‘When was this?’ 

‘Twenty years ago.’ 

‘Who was the murderer?’ 

Ed shrugged helplessly. 

‘Never caught. The department was corrupt and, by the looks of it, incompetent. The lead investigator developed tunnel-vision for a suspect early on – a young student who would frequent the Uffizi, which the inspector found suspicious. He was detained and his home was searched, but there was nothing to tie him to the murders. The whole thing turned into something of a scandal. The inspector was disgraced and taken off the case. A small-time criminal was tried for the murders, but his conviction was overturned. There was no evidence against him. It remains one of the many unsolved mysteries in the archive.’

Chandler placed the photograph back into the file, feeling sombre. 

‘Not the most inspiring story, I’m afraid,’ Ed said, pulling himself up. ‘But I hope it is helpful in some way.’

‘Thank you, Ed.’ He picked up the files and made his way back into his office. He closed the door behind him, leaving the low buzz of the incident room behind. In this new-found silence, he settled at his desk, aligning his watch, phone and pens before placing Ed’s files in the middle. He opened the first one and let the material absorb him. Somewhere in his mind, he was aware of the room beyond the glass door. He could hear the comings and goings of his team, Miles occasionally jostling them into a new task. 

Nevertheless, it felt very far away. He imagined standing in a vacant lot in 1947, looking down on a body cut in two - in the dense Washington forest, a posed corpse at his feet - by the bins somewhere in Seattle, where a woman sat with her ankles crossed, he head lolling onto her chest - in Florence, watching Botticelli reenacted by the dead. The second and third cases were the only ones that had been solved, but they seemed different from the murders he was investigating. The Chesapeake Ripper posed his victims so they would be found that way, not for his own pleasure. Chandler’s instinct told him that this killer had no interest in going back to his victims’ bodies, whether to gloat or to find sexual release. If that was the case, he would have left them somewhere else, in the woods or his own home. In the city they would be found quickly. 

The Black Dahlia murder did, as Buchan had said, share the theatrics of their killer’s work. It was a case he had heard of before – it was difficult not to – but he did not see how it would be useful here. It would not be a useful parallel into the Chesapeake Ripper’s psyche. All there was to explain the bisection were theories, all of which seemed far-fetched to Chandler. Once he had read the file, he closed it and put it aside, giving it up as a lost cause. 

The fourth file was the one he lingered on. He remembered the sight of Tracy Matthews on the steps of the church. Compared to the Botticelli murders, that crime-scene had seemed tame. Chandler studied the photographs in detail. Where had the killer found all these flowers? he wondered. Had he picked them himself, or had he bought them? If he bought them from a florist, they must have cost a fortune. The composition of the bodies must have taken hours too. Where had he done it? Chandler wondered. In a city as big as Florence, where did one hide a lorry long enough to make such a scene? He was not sure it was possible to drive it far with that delicate installation on the back. 

He read the story of the botched investigation carefully. Ed had chosen his words well when he had said the lead investigator got tunnel-vision. Chandler could not find any mention that the origins of the flowers had been investigated. The lorry had been stolen, but it had not been thoroughly searched for forensics. After the crime-scene photos had been taken, much of the vegetation had been discarded. It seemed to Chandler that it would be difficult to work with that type of thing without leaving some DNA trace or fabric fibres. Then again, he was aware that he had the benefit of hindsight. It sounded like it had been a thankless case, thanks to the killer’s strange MO and the corruption within the police-force. The investigator had done what Chandler had always been told not to do - he had run with his eureka moment. Admittedly, Chandler had done that more than once. On occasion it had almost gotten him killed. 

He was shaken from his thoughts by a knock on the door. When he looked up, Miles had already opened it and poked his head in. 

‘Boss, come and see this.’ 

Chandler got to his feet and hurried after him. The entire team was gathered around Mansell’s computer. 

‘What have you got?’ he asked, joining them. The CCTV footage on his computer was frozen. With a keyboard command, he set it playing again. The camera overlooked the small square by Christ Church. The image barely changed, only occasionally catching the shadow of a passing car. 

‘Here,’ Mansell said. ‘Four-thirty AM.’ 

A car rolled into camera and stopped just by the bollards. A figure stepped out of the driver’s seat and crossed to the gates. 

‘What’s that in his hand?’ Chandler asked. 

‘Bolt-cutters,’ Riley said. ‘Look. He cut through the chain on the gate.’ She pointed at how the figure’s shoulders tightened. The next moment, the gate to the church moved. 

The figure moved back to the car, first to the driver’s seat and then to the back-seat. They lost sight of him for a moment. When he stepped away from the car again, there was something in his arms. The grainy black-and-white footage rendered the object a dark shadow, but it was clear what it was. He carried it like one might carry a sleeping child to bed, one arm under the knees, another behind the back, the head against his shoulder. He mounted the steps and put down his burden. Now Chandler realised that the dark covering was a tarpaulin. The figure crouched and opened it, then pulled it from under the body. He rolled up the tarp and arranged Tracy Matthews’ arms and legs, making sure her jacket and shirt were symmetrically spread. Then he stood and walked down the steps, stopping for a moment to look at her. Chandler felt the hairs on his neck stand up. Even from high above, watching from such an unnatural angle, the figure’s act of looking frightened him. As he watched the figure turn and get back into the car, he noticed that his mouth had gone dry. 

‘Are there any other angles of this?’ he asked. 

‘There is a camera at the corner of Fournier Street, but it’s broken. There’s another one on the other side of the road, but it just catches the traffic,’ Mansell said. 

’So we don’t have his face,’ Miles filled in. 

‘But what we have is plenty,’ Chandler said. Forgetting his fear, he felt instead how his heart sped up with excitement. ‘Go back a few seconds.’ Mansell started rewinding it. ‘Stop.’ he paused the footage at where the figure stood with his back to the camera, watching his handiwork. ‘This will give us a good idea about his height. I think I reached about the same part of the railings, which would mean he’s around six feet. Also, when he turns, I think you can see the side of his face.’ Mansell tapped some commands and the video started up again, slower this time. The figure held his head down as he turned, but part of his cheek and jaw could still be seen. Mansell paused it. 

‘Not enough to identify him by,’ Kent commented. 

‘But it narrows it down,’ Chandler said. 

‘So he’s white,’ Mansell said. 

‘Light-skinned, at least,’ Chandler said. ‘We are looking for a man with light skin, around six foot, strong enough to carry a body with ease.’ 

Mansell unpaused the video again. 

‘Wait.’ Riley reached over and pressed the space key, stopping it. ‘Look at his hands.’ 

Chandler looked closer. He had assumed they were clasped in front of him, but now he could just about make out that one of his hands was at the level of the other wrist. Mentally, he kicked himself. There had been no fingerprints on anything. He had just assumed the killer wore ordinary leather gloves, but despite the overexposed white of the hands on the screen, that was not skin. When they let the video run again, he could see how a layer of something came off one of his hands. 

‘Is he still taking off the gloves when he gets in the car?’ 

‘By the looks of it, yes.’ 

‘Trace the car,’ Chandler said. ‘Find it. Establish the route it took from Christ Church and any opportunity the driver might have had to dispose of the tarp and the gloves. I want every bin searched.’ 

‘He could have just taken them home with him,’ Riley said sceptically. 

‘Bloody latex gloves are a bit incriminating,’ Kent said. ‘You’d want to get rid of them.’ 

‘Get on it,’ Chandler said sharply. ‘And send the footage to an expert. I want it analysed. See if they can establish a rough height and weight.’ 

‘You heard him,’ Miles said and clapped his hands. Chandler broke out of the sudden flurry of movement and went into his office. His heart beat so hard he could feel it through the roof of his mouth. Fumbling, he picked up his jar of tiger balm. He was still rubbing it on his temples when Miles came in after him. 

‘I don’t think we stand a very good chance finding those gloves,’ he said bluntly. 

‘No,’ Chandler admitted. 

‘The Americans have never found any forensic trace of him.’ 

‘They never caught an image of him either, but we have,’ Chandler said. ‘I’m hoping he’ll slip up, now that he’s away from home.’ He put down the jar, aligning it carefully with the other things on his desk. ‘Besides, it’s worth looking for them. There might be skin cells on the inside of the gloves. That could be crucial evidence.’ 

Miles shrugged. 

‘You’re right about that, boss.’ He did not sound entirely convinced. ‘I’ll go make sure Mansell sends off that footage.’ 

‘Thank you, Miles.’ 

He heard how the door closed carefully. He did not turn around to look, but he was certain that Miles was watching him. He could not name what he was feeling right now. Some part of him was reeling with happiness. This was a lead, far more proper than anything they or the FBI for that matter had previously had. They had footage of the killer dumping the body, the first visual confirmation that this wraith existed. If they were lucky, they might be able to find the car he had been driving. Despite the dizzying feeling of progress, he also felt something akin to vertigo. He had seen something no one else – not Jack Crawford or Will Graham or any of them – had seen: the Chesapeake Ripper surveying his dominion. 

The memory of Tracy Matthews’ body laid out on the church-steps was now amended. Her killer stood over her body, watching impassively, quietly pleased with his work. In Chandler’s imagination, the killer’s face was featureless. Perhaps he would find out what he looked like. Perhaps he would find out his name.

***

After the CCTV footage find, the rest of the day felt very slow. Chandler wrote up a report of what had been done this far and reported to DCI Gibson over the phone. He wondered whether to contact Agent Crawford about the footage, but he felt reluctant. In the end, he only sent him an email telling him that there had been another murder. He spent plenty of time crafting the message. He did not really want the man to come bursting into the police station again. It was not anything against him – in fact, he had rather liked Crawford. He felt like a no-nonsense fellow. Chandler could not quite get over feeling daunted by the FBI’s presence, however. He might police the streets where the first modern serial killings had happened, but the behavioural science unit were the ones who had developed virtually all ways to track multiple murderers. Every book he had read about profiling had been written by someone at or attached to Crawford’s unit, he realised now. When he found his carefully typed up notes from the profiling course he had been sent on when he was still being fast-tracked, he found Crawford’s name attached to several cases they had studied. He clearly did sterling work. Chandler on the other hand kept having his suspects slip through his fingers.

That made him think of Graham. While he had taken to Crawford quickly, he was still not sure how he felt about his colleague. On the face of it he had the air of a preoccupied university lecturer rather than a police officer. There was something else, though, that he could not quite articulate. The closest he could come was that it was some kind of neurotic repulsion. Even when Graham stood still and was quiet, he felt loud. Nervous energy was pouring off him. Chandler knew that when things were bad, he could be much the same. Had it not been for that conversation in his car, he would have put it down to that. But that mild-mannered man had killed someone. That he had done it to save another life and that the man he had shot was a murderer felt irrelevant. It felt so _wrong_. He had to push aside the thought, feeling himself sinking into it more and more. 

It was almost six o’clock when Riley knocked on his door. 

‘Sir, I don’t think we’re going to be any good for anyone much longer. Kent’s practically asleep, and Mansell’s glazed over completely.’ 

Chandler rubbed his eyes. 

‘It’s been a long day.’ He pulled himself up. ‘Has CCTV turned up anything else?’ 

She shook her head. 

‘Nothing. The car had stolen plates. We’ve managed to find footage of it driving north up Commercial Street, but then it turns onto smaller side-streets that don’t have cameras. We’re checking for stolen cars of the same make, but so far nothing.’ 

Chandler straightened his pen and leaned back. 

‘What about the bins?’ 

‘Skip put some uniform on it. We’ve been taking shifts helping out. The council isn’t best pleased. They’ve been asking when they can start emptying the bins again.’ 

‘Once we’ve checked them,’ Chandler said, realising as he said it that it was obvious. ‘Has it turned up anything?’ 

‘No,’ Riley said. ‘There’s nothing that looks remotely like a tarp. We’ve found some latex gloves, but none of them have blood on them. Plenty of semen, though.’ She shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s good that people take safe sex seriously.’ She said it straight-faced, too tired to make it sound like a joke. 

‘We’re clearly not getting anywhere,’ Chandler said. When he got to his feet, he saw how Miles took Kent by the shoulder and shook him out of a doze. 

‘Come on, lad. Look lively.’ 

Chandler crossed to the open door. 

‘Go home and get some rest,’ he said. Kent rubbed his eyes, looking even younger than usual. 

‘It’s alright, sir…’ 

‘Not just you, Kent. All of you.’ 

Riley was already getting her coat. Mansell stretched and started putting on the shoes he had discarded. Kent got to his feet, still trying to blink awake. When he reached for his helmet, Miles swatted his hands away. 

‘No way you’re driving that thing. I’ll give you a lift.’ 

‘What about you, sir?’ Kent asked. Miles, seemingly pleased not to have to be the one to tell him to go home, gave Chandler a meaningful look. 

‘Just get home in one piece,’ he said. He had to stop himself saying something about not worrying about him. He knew they all did, perhaps Kent more than the other DCs, but it did not feel right to acknowledge it. Instead, he turned and closed his door. He watched Mansell and Riley leave together, and Kent following them. Miles headed towards the door, but then doubled back. Without knocking, he opened the office door. 

‘Don’t stay up too late, boss. You need your beauty sleep.’ 

Chandler shot him an amused look. 

‘Good night, Miles.’ 

‘Night, boss.’

Miles closed the door and hurried after the others. Silence fell over the incident room. Chandler leaned back in his chair, considering what he should do. Try as he might to deny it, but he was exhausted. He doubted he could get much thinking down like this. Nevertheless, the prospect of going home did not appeal to him. When he was sure no one was coming back into the incident room, he left his office and made his usual round with the bin. There was less rubbish on the desks nowadays than when he started this custom. Idly he wondered if the team knew that he did it and made an effort to clean up after themselves. For a moment, he felt a pang of affection for them all. 

His suddenly idle thoughts were interrupted by the sight of the whiteboards. The photographs of Adrian Halifax and Tracy Matthews headed a board each, filled with information of their lives. Beside all those pieces of what had made them people, the detectives had fastened the crime scene photographs. Chandler avoided looking at them now, instead turning to the third board. It bore the heading “Profile”. 

Making a decision, Chandler went into his office and set the printer working. As it hummed, he took down the photographs of the previous Chesapeake victims. He would dedicate a new board to them when this was done. Now, he erased the profile. He replaced the heading with the word “Suspect”. In the middle of the board he fastened a still from the CCTV footage of the dark figure leaving Christ Church. Underneath it, he wrote the things they knew for sure. “Male. Around 6’. Physical strength. Medical knowledge. Able to travel.”

When he straightened up, he caught sight of something at the edge of his gaze. It made him jump. Then he exhaled to calm himself. 

‘Mister Graham.’ 

‘Didn’t mean to startle you,’ Graham said. Chandler thought he looked worse than he had that morning. Before he had time to say that he should go back to his hotel and get some sleep, Graham stepped closer and asked: ‘What is that?’ 

Chandler stepped aside, giving him a better view. 

‘We found CCTV footage of the murderer dumping Tracy Matthews’ body.’ 

Graham hurried around the desks, coming to a stop in front of the board. The sight of the photograph seemed to transfix him. Gradually, his face changed. The stunned expression receded. His eyes narrowed and his lips parted, as if he wanted to ask the picture a question. After a long while, he exhaled forcefully and took a step back. 

‘Is he what you expected?’ Chandler asked. 

‘I don’t know what I expected,’ Graham admitted. ‘Not that I’d see him for the first time like this, though.’ He put his hands in his pocket. ‘There’s something almost petty about it, isn’t there? It should be a great revelation, not… a grainy photo of a shadow.’ 

Chandler wanted to disagree and say that this work was not about great revelations, but he had found out long ago that he was wrong about that. In a way it had been easier when he had seen it as a trudge towards resolution, when the people he chased were not built up as monsters. He remembered standing in the A&E talking to the polite and likeable Dr Cohen, with no idea that he was the one who had inflicted the injuries he was describing. At no point had he suspected him. Chasing another killing doctor kept bringing him back to that first case. It still turned his stomach. 

‘Excuse me.’ He retreated into his office. The tiger balm he rubbed into his temples brought him out of his thoughts a little. It struck him now that Jack Crawford would find out about the CCTV. Graham would not keep that to himself. It was far better for the relationship between the investigation if Chandler was the one to break the news. He found the phone number he had been given and dialled it. As the signals went through, he calculated what the time would be in Virginia. Early afternoon, if he was not mistaken. 

In the middle of a ring, the line opened and a gruff voice said:

‘Yes?’ 

‘This is Joseph Chandler.’ 

‘DI Chandler,’ Crawford said, recognition in his voice. ‘How is the investigation proceeding?’ 

Chandler corrected the angle of the stapler. 

‘We have some new evidence,’ he said finally. ‘A CCTV camera caught the dumping of the last body.’ 

The silence was so complete that Chandler wondered if Crawford had hung up or dropped the phone. Then finally when he answered, he spoke quietly: 

‘You have footage of him?’ 

‘Yes. We don’t have a picture of his face, but it gives us some idea of his height and build.’ 

‘Which is?’ 

‘The experts are still working on it,’ Chandler said. ‘But he appears to be fairly tall. Slim or medium build. He might be wearing layers, so it’s hard to tell.’ 

‘Still, it’s more than we had before,’ Crawford said. ‘Congratulations. I can’t pretend I’m not jealous.’ 

‘You were right to think that operating in a new environment might trip him up.’ 

‘If it’s possible, I’d like to see the footage.’ He spoke with restraint, as if reminding himself as he said the words that he did not have the authority to demand it. 

‘I will have to clear it with my superiors,’ Chandler said, ‘but if they do not have any objections, I will have it sent to you.’ 

‘Thank you,’ Crawford said. ‘I appreciate it.’ 

‘No, I appreciate your help,’ Chandler said. 

‘It’s mutually beneficial,’ Crawford said. ‘Thank you for calling, DI Chandler.’ 

‘It’s my pleasure.’ 

They rang off. Through the glass door, he could still see Graham standing in front of the boards, watching the CCTV still. His act of watching was unsettling, even if he was not the object of it. Chandler picked up his jacket and made his way out of the office and through the incident room. Graham did not even glance at him as he passed or when he closed the door behind him. 

Chandler descended the stairs, towards the basement. He was not fond of the place - it was narrow and dusty and made his skin itch. However disruptive Buchan’s tendency to burst into the incident room with an idea could be, it was always a welcome diversion. Going down to him was what he did when he had a request, braving the discomfort of the katabasis for the knowledge he would gain. 

As he had expected, Ed was still there, sitting perched on a solitary chair amid a sea of archive boxes. He finished reading the line he was on before looking up. 

‘Ah, Joe,’ he said, taking his glasses off. ‘I would have expected Miles to have bundled you home by now.’ 

‘He tried.’ Perhaps it was inappropriate for Ed to talk about the sergeant that way, but it lifted his spirits. 

‘So what can I do for you?’ Ed asked. 

‘I’m interested in a case Will Graham mentioned. The Minnesota Shrike.’

‘Ah, of course.’ Buchan got up and picked his way through the piles. ‘It’s a recent case, and I haven’t finished assembling it yet. I was meaning to pick it up again, considering we have the man who cracked it as our guest.’ He found a file and handed it over. Chandler thumbed it open. He had expected a mugshot or at least a passport picture. Instead, it was a picture of a man and a girl in hunting gear, smiling at the camera. 

‘Garrett Jacob Hobbs,’ Ed said. ‘Killed eight girls, all of them of similar age to his daughter. Before his capture, he also killed his wife and attempted to kill Abigail, his only child.’ 

‘But Graham shot him.’ 

‘Yes, Ed said with a sigh. Chandler glanced up from the file. 

‘You knew that?’ 

‘Yes.’ Then he added: ‘But that was not why I shook his hand. Garrett Jacob Hobbs will never answer for his crimes or give the families of the missing girls any peace. They only found the body of one victim, tucked back into bed. There was enough DNA evidence found at his property to tie him to the other seven, but nothing else.’ 

Chandler turned through the page and paused at a headline. 

‘You said she was found in bed?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘What’s this about?’ 

Buchan put his glasses on and peered at the file. 

‘Ah, that’s one of the great remaining mysteries of this case,’ he explained. ‘How familiar are you with ornithology, Joe?’ 

‘Not very,’ he admitted. ‘But enough to know what a shrike is.’ 

‘They are sometimes referred to as butcher-birds,’ Ed said, taking the file away from him and looking through it. ‘They impale their prey on thorns.’ 

‘Was that was Hobbs did?’ 

‘It appears that way,’ Ed said. ‘As I mentioned, there was only ever one body found. However, this was what really prompted the nickname.’ 

He pulled out a photo from among the printed-out pages. It was taken from far away, but Chandler could make out a suspended shape. 

‘A young woman was found mounted on a stag’s head,’ Ed said. ‘The FBI was certain she was not killed by Hobbs.’ 

‘So he had a copycat?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Can I take this?’ Chandler asked, gesturing with the file. 

‘Of course,’ Ed said. ‘The research is not really up to my usual standard. As it’s a recent case, information is fairly scarce. I have had to rely on tabloid journalism for some of it, I’m afraid.’ 

‘I’ll read with caution.’ 

Chandler put the file under his arm and was about to leave, when he stopped himself. 

‘Why did you shake him hand, Ed?’ he asked. 

Ed shrugged. 

‘Will Graham is something of a legend among criminologists. He has an insight into the criminal psyche that can sometimes be… uncanny.’ Then, Ed hurried to say: ‘Don’t get me wrong. He is a great asset. But what the rumour mill says is that the work takes a toll on him.’ 

Chandler thought that Ed’s eyes softened when he said that. 

‘Perhaps that’s preferable to not feeling anything,’ he said. 

‘Yes. Perhaps.’ 

‘Good night, Ed.’ 

‘Good night, Joe.’

***

The next morning, rain hung in the air, shielding London from the sun. As the detectives came into the incident room, Chandler noticed more thick scarves and bulky jumpers than the previous day. He understood the decision. The cold was drying out the skin on his hands, threatening to crack it. However chilly he had been on the way to the car, he had decided not to put on gloves for fear of bleeding in them. Now, at the station, that worry felt distant. He felt an odd form of excitement as he started the morning briefing, standing in front of the whiteboard where he had put up the CCTV still.

‘We have an image of our killer,’ he said. ‘We can’t see his face, but this gives us something to go on, if only to exclude suspects. Mansell, has the image analysis come back?’ 

‘Yes.’ Mansell took the file which was standing under his tea mug and opened it. ‘They said what you said, boss. He’s about six foot. Medium build. Well-trained, probably. They can’t say much about skin-colour, other than he’s fairly pale.’ 

‘Good to have it from an authority,’ Chandler said. ‘This means we can be more specific in our enquiries. We already have the Americans’ profile, but this is the first we have of his physical appearance.’ He pointed at the list he had done last night. ‘We can add something else too. In order to fly to Europe, the killer must be well-off. Considering we are in the middle of a work-week, he must have a job which gives him flexibility. Perhaps he’s here on business. Perhaps he’s his own boss.’ 

‘Or he could have been transferred here,’ Miles said. ‘He could work for some insurance company, or be an army doctor.’

‘Annapolis, where the first victim was killed, is where the American Naval Academy is,’ Chandler said. ‘But could a serial killer really slip through the net of military psychiatrists?’ 

‘Quite a few murderers have been in the army,’ Buchan said. ‘Including some officers. There was a case in Canada not long ago where a colonel murdered two young women. He had been escalating from peeping to burglary to assault, and no one had noticed.’ 

‘Besides, he must have gone through medical training,’ Kent said. ‘It’s not like that’s stress-free.’ 

‘This man must be able to hide his true self,’ Buchan said. ‘He can fool professionals. But more than that, he can control himself. If he had problems with impulse control, there is no way he would have been able to get where we think he is.’ 

‘Explains why he hasn’t been caught too,’ Miles said. ‘He plans out his attacks. He takes the time to get it right.’

‘It is worth asking what the final goal is,’ Buchan said, biting the arm of his glasses. The response did not come from the team, but from the door. 

‘He wants to show off his mastery of death.’

Chandler looked up, surprised. Graham was standing by the door, hands in his pockets. He was not sure how he had managed to get in without making a sound. 

‘So the killing is the point?’ Chandler said. ‘Not the mutilation or the trophies.’ 

‘You’re assuming they’re separate things,’ Graham said, crossing to the boards. ‘He kills them by torture. Then he humiliates them – takes them apart, displays them, like old public dissections.’ His eyes fixed on the CCTV still. For a moment, he seemed completely unreachable. Chandler decided to take the opportunity to pose the question.

‘Why take the organs?’ Kent asked. ‘If it’s just about humiliation, why not just leave them in the body?’

‘Any number of reasons,’ Ed said. ‘To display. For some ritual purpose.’ 

Miles breathed in sharply. 

‘Sweet Mary in Heaven,’ he murmured. 

‘What?’ Chandler said, prompting him. 

‘Mary Bosefield. Catherine Eddows.’ 

‘You mean he’s going to send someone the organs?’ Chandler asked. 

Miles shook his head. 

‘No. The Ripper only sent me half her kidney.’ He looked at Chandler and recited: ‘“The other half I fried and ate.”’

‘He’s a cannibal?’ Riley said. 

‘It’s possible,’ Chandler said. His eyes darted over the information on the boards. ‘Probable, even. Everything he’s taken is edible. He doesn’t take anything that isn’t fit for consumption.’ 

‘Just the price cuts,’ Graham said, staring at the crime-scene photographs with an intensity which made Chandler uneasy. ‘There was something our pathologist said about Christopher Ward, victim number thirteen,’ he recalled. ‘His intestines were missing. He said “the Ripper’s making sausage.” He must have meant it as a joke. I should have thought of this then.’ 

‘But _why_?’ Kent asked. Chandler glanced at Buchan. 

‘There are as many reasons why people choose to engage in anthropophagy, as a community or as an individual,’ he said. ‘It has been used as a way of absorbing the power of one’s enemy, or as a way of honouring the dead. The Milwaukee Cannibal only ate victims he was particularly fond of, to keep them with him.’

‘No, that’s not it,’ Chandler said. ‘This isn’t about consuming a lover to keep him with you. These people aren’t killed for any such reasons. He doesn’t love them.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps he doesn’t hate them either. It’s the cold hand of justice.’ 

‘Justice doesn’t eat,’ Miles said. 

‘Will, you said he killed in sounders,’ Riley said. 

‘Yes.’ Graham nodded. 

‘What does that mean?’ Mansell asked. 

‘It’s a herd of pigs,’ Chandler said. 

‘Perhaps that’s how he sees them,’ Riley said. ‘They’re food.’ 

Graham got a far-off look in his eye.

‘He doesn’t see them as human,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps, he doesn’t see himself as human.’

Kent bit his lip and frowned. 

‘How long does meat keep?’ he asked. 

‘All depends on how you store it,’ Miles said. 

‘But it’s better the fresher it is, right?’ Kent said. ‘What if that’s why he kills in threes and fours? To get his ingredients.’

‘For what?’ Miles asked. ‘A feast?’ 

‘Yeah.’

‘If that’s what he does, we can rule out that he lives at a hotel,’ Chandler said. ‘He’d want somewhere with a kitchen and good storage possibilities.’ 

‘So we’re looking for short-term rentals?’ Mansell asked. 

‘If he hasn’t moved for real,’ Riley said. ‘He could have bought somewhere.’ 

No one spoke for a long time. It was Mansell who broke the silence. 

‘So how do you catch someone like this?’ 

‘I honestly have no idea,’ Graham said, pushing his hair out of his face. It clung to his skin. ‘Sheer dumb luck usually.’ 

‘We cannot wait until he’s pulled over with a body in the car,’ Ed said. ‘We must do _something_.’ 

‘I want you to find a connection between Halifax and Matthews,’ Chandler said. ‘Miles, Kent - go back to Halifax’s office, check any appointments he had, any sales, any correspondence. Mansell, Riley - go talk to Matthews’ colleagues. See if she had any other jobs, any hobbies, where she socialised.’ Then he turned to Graham. ‘Can I talk to you in private?’ 

As the others got ready to leave, they retreated into the DI’s office. Soon, it was only Ed left in the incident room, chewing his nails and studying the boards. Chandler turned his back towards the door and faced Graham. 

‘Sorry I came rushing into your briefing.’ 

‘No need to apologise,’ Chandler said. ‘Your insights are valuable.’ 

‘I should have seen it,’ he murmured. ‘I suppose I must have had my head so wrapped around the last cannibal I investigated I lost sight of that aspect.’ 

‘The Minnesota Shrike.’ 

Graham nodded. 

‘Yes.’ 

‘It was that I wanted to ask you about.’ 

Graham looked up. 

‘What about it?’ he asked. ‘Do you want an account for your archive?’ 

‘I’m sure Ed would be over the moon,’ Chandler said, ‘but it isn’t that. I was reading up on the case yesterday. The Cassie Boyle murder jumped out at me.’ 

‘It does that,’ Graham said, sighing. 

‘Why was the FBI so certain she was not killed by Hobbs?’

‘There is no way she was,’ Graham said. ‘On the face of it, it looks so neat. She was a white female in her late teens, dark hair, blue eyes, slim build. She was mounted on antlers, just like Elise Nichols. But he left her out there, in the field. Cold, unloved.’ 

‘Displayed.’ 

‘Yes.’ Graham looked at him sharply. 

‘You have more experience with this type of murder than I do,’ Chandler said, feeling he had to tread carefully. ‘How common is it for a killer to remove a victim’s lungs?’ 

‘Not common at all,’ Will said. ‘They’re difficult to get to. If you just want to take an internal organ, then you’d go for the abdomen. If you’re feeling keen, you could try for the heart. It’s smaller. You can push your hand in and cut it out. But lungs… there’s just too much bone to get through to remove them in one piece.’ 

They looked at each other for a long moment. 

‘What you’re suggesting…’ Graham interrupted himself. 

‘It’s something of a coincidence, isn’t it?’ Chandler said. Graham took his glasses off and rubbed his face. 

‘It’s a four-hour flight from Baltimore to Hibbing,’ Graham said. ‘Cassie Boyle was a one-off victim. She was found naked, not clothed.’ 

‘But she was displayed,’ Chandler said. ‘Buchan told me that the kind of posing the Chesapeake Ripper does is extremely uncommon.’ 

‘That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t happen elsewhere,’ Graham answered. ‘Do you know that there were two serial killers within ten years of each other with almost the same MO, the same signature, the same victimology, one in London and one in Milwaukee? That doesn’t mean they were one and the same. Just two men whose pathology happened to have manifested in roughly the same way.’ 

‘I am aware that just statistics isn’t good enough,’ Chandler said. ‘But it’s a question that needs to be asked.’ Graham crossed his arms. ‘I’m not trying to cast any doubts on the investigation into Cassie Boyle’s murder. But if we think the Chesapeake Ripper can go across the Atlantic to kill, then Minnesota is not a stretch.’ 

Graham was quite for a long while. 

‘I hope you’re not right,’ he said finally. ‘But it feels like him.’ 

‘I think there is a way we can get some clarity,’ Chandler said. ‘Could you get hold of the autopsy photos of Cassie Boyle?’ 

‘I have them on my laptop.’ 

‘Oh. In that case, I suggest we go to the morgue.’ 

They made their way there without speaking. Chandler thought he could feel the air around Graham vibrate. He had never met someone who thought so loudly. 

Caroline Llewellyn was in her office dressed in a skirt and blouse and with her hair let out. Chandler always found it took a few moments before he recognised her out of scrubs. When he knocked on the open door, she looked up and broke into a smile. 

‘DI Chandler, Mr Graham, come in.’ She gestured them inside. ‘How nice of you to pop by.’ 

They took the seats she indicated. 

‘I wanted your opinion on some injuries,’ Chandler explained. Graham had already picked up his laptop and was looking for the pictures. In a matter of moments, he found what he was looking for and handed over the computer. Llewellyn took it from him. 

‘What am I looking at?’ she asked. 

Graham and Chandler exchanged a look. 

‘Perhaps better that we don’t say,’ Graham said. ‘So we don’t cloud your judgement.’ 

‘Fair enough.’ She looked through the photos. Once or twice she raised an eyebrow. Eventually, she leaned back. 

‘What do you think?’ Chandler asked. 

‘Judging from these pictures, the victim had her lungs removed,’ she said. ‘The sternum seems to have been sawed through, the ribs cracked. There is some trauma to the heart, but only as a result to the work done on the lungs. It doesn’t seem to have as much as a nick on it. I would expect that the perpetrator used a very sharp instrument, something like a scalpel.’ 

‘That sounds like what you said about Tracy Matthews,’ Chandler observed. 

‘Well, there are some differences,’ Llewellyn admitted. ‘The killer closed her chest afterwards, and there seems to be several penetrating wounds to the back.’ 

‘They’re from deer antlers,’ Graham said. Llewellyn looked at him, surprised. 

‘Well that would do it,’ she said. 

‘Is there any differences apart from the display?’ Chandler asked. ‘Does the killer know what he’s doing?’ 

‘He clearly knows his way around a chest cavity,’ Llewellyn said. ‘And the knife-work is excellent. He managed to remove the lungs without damaging the heart.’ 

‘So he might be a medical man?’ 

‘I’d say so,’ she said. ‘This is more than just luck.’ 

‘How does it compare to the second Whitechapel victim?’ Graham asked. 

‘Tracy Matthews? To be perfectly honest, if it weren’t for the piercings, this could have been her.’ 

Graham swallowed hard. Chandler felt something part-way between excitement and dread flooding his system. 

‘Do you think it’s the same man?’ 

‘It’s possible,’ Llewellyn said. ‘I can’t say for certain of course, but the technique is very similar.’ 

Graham leaned forward and put his face in his hands. Chandler looked from him to Llewellyn, who bit her lip. 

‘I should have known,’ Graham murmured. His hands fell and he looked at Chandler. ‘He killed the second one too.’ 

‘The second one?’ Chandler repeated. Graham nodded. 

‘There was a second woman killed by the copycat. She was mounted on a set of antlers in Hobbs’ hunting cabin. Everyone just assumed it was Cassie Boyle’s brother - never questioned it…’ 

Chandler did not know what to say. The feeling of excitement was gone now. Instead, all he was aware of was Graham staring into thin air. His hands were shaking. 

Llewellyn got to her feet. 

‘DI Chandler, could you find Igor and ask him to get us some tea?’ 

Chandler got to his feet. Llewellyn closed the door behind him carefully. He drew a few shaking breaths and headed for the exit. On the way, he almost ran into the pathologist’s assistant. He stopped and gestured back at the office. 

‘Dr Llewellyn was asking for tea.’ 

Igor looked a bit confused. 

‘For the two of you?’ 

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m leaving. But there’s someone with her.’ He glanced around. ‘I- I’m sorry.’ 

He hurried on, not slowing until he was outside. The autumn air pricked at his throat. His impulse was to keep moving, but he made himself stop. He tried to name what he felt, but could not. Watching Graham have these revelations had thrown him off-balance. It was like he had lost control through watching Graham lose his. 

When the throb of his heart calmed down and he felt able to breathe again, he walked back to the station. He trusted Llewellyn to get Graham back to where he needed to be. The tea had clearly been an excuse to get him out of the room, for both his and Graham’s sakes. It had been the right decision, although not one he could have made himself, he thought. 

The incident room was empty when he stepped in. He paused and looked a the board with the Chesapeake Ripper’s victims. The list was numbered from one to fifteen. He wondered if they should redo it to put the two new names on it. Not yet, he decided. Instead, he retreated into his office. 

It was almost an hour later that Will Graham came through the doors. Chandler waved him into the office before he had time to knock. 

‘I’m sorry you had to see that,’ he said. 

Chandler put his pen down, not quite sure what to say. Even if he did understand, he did not want to indicate that. It felt too intimate. At the same time, he felt no need to reprimand him. 

‘I understand that case was a difficult one.’ 

Graham nodded. 

‘I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘Cassie Boyle and Marissa Shuur are connected the Chesapeake case. Or perhaps, they weren’t killed by the Chesapeake Ripper. Just by the same man wearing a different hat.’ 

‘Do you mean it’s his… side-project?’ Chandler said. He had never heard of such a thing, but nothing should surprise him. 

‘I don’t know,’ Graham admitted. ‘I don’t know why he did it. There are enough similarities to convince me that it’s him, but… why was he getting involved in this case?’ 

‘I have no idea.’ 

Graham sighed again. 

‘I’m going to be no use to you with the Hobbs case this central,’ he said. ‘I think I’d just be a distraction.’ He shifted in his chair. ‘Dr Llewellyn suggested I take some time off. When the pathologists start eyeing you, you know you’re in trouble.’ It was a poor excuse of a joke, clearly meant to deflect from how bad he looked. 

‘I understand,’ Chandler said. ‘I will see to it that you get a plane ticket home.’ 

‘No, it’s alright. I can do that myself.’ Graham got to his feet. ‘You have more important things to do.’ 

‘Thank you for all your help.’ Chandler stood up too. They shook hands. 

‘Good luck, Detective Inspector,’ Graham said. ‘You’re going to need it.’ 

Without expounding on that last point, Graham turned and left. Chandler sat back down, staring at his desk. Luck was the one thing he did not have.

***

Chandler barely saw the team for the rest of the day. They reported in by the afternoon and wrote up their reports, but there was nothing immediately worrisome. They were all so busy that Chandler did not have the heart to tell them about what had happened that morning. It was not urgent - it could wait. He had hoped that they would all go home without prompting and leave him on his own, but while the DCs left soon after the shift ended, Miles hung back. Soon, he heard the familiar tap on his door.

‘Yes?’ 

Miles opened the door and stepped in. 

‘I just got off the phone with Judy,’ he said. ‘She said to invite you for dinner. I can’t guarantee it’ll be quite, but it’ll be a change of scene.’ 

Chandler leaned back with a sigh. He did not feel sociable in the least, but he wanted to get out of his office. 

‘Thank you.’ Chandler stood up and took his coat. ‘That’s very kind of her.’ 

‘Might have been my idea too,’ Miles said. 

They took Miles’ car. In the evening congestion, it was much better to be in the same one. They were quite the first ten minutes. Then, as they came to a stop after a few yards, Miles turned and looked at him. 

‘Did something happen today?’ 

‘What makes you say that?’ 

‘It’s just that you look worried.’ 

Chandler sighed. 

‘I think I inadvertently made the American investigation more complicated.’ 

‘How so?’ 

‘I asked Graham about a murder I thought sounded similar to Tracy Matthews’. We took the autopsy pictures to Llewellyn, and before I know it it looks like we have to add another two names to the victim list.’ 

‘Crikey.’ 

‘What’s more, Graham’s not going to help us anymore.’ 

Miles gave him an odd look. 

‘Why? You hurt his pride?’ 

‘No. The two new victims were part of the investigation where he shot the suspect.’ Chandler was looking out of the window now, glad he was not the one driving. He was feeling far too distracted. ‘He clearly has some issues surrounding it. He went to pieces in Llewellyn’s office. She shooed me out and talked him into taking time off work.’ 

When he looked back at Miles, he was frowning. Chandler wondered if he was thinking about the same thing he was. 

‘What about you?’ Miles asked. 

‘What do you mean?’ 

Miles looked at him now. 

‘How are you holding up?’ 

Chandler looked away. 

‘Well enough.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘I just don’t know what to do. It feels like we have nothing.’ 

‘We have the CCTV footage.’ 

‘It doesn’t lead us anywhere.’ 

‘Riley continued working on the car this afternoon. Something might turn up.’ 

‘Even if it’s stolen, it had stolen plates too. Unless we find the actual car, it won’t do anything.’

‘We might still do that.’ 

‘Unless he’s sold it, or burned it, or had it scrapped.’ Chandler bit together hand and exhaled. ‘There’s going to be another murder. There might be more than one. But then he might go silent again.’ 

‘And he won’t kill for another year or two,’ Miles said. 

‘Cassie Boyle and Marissa Shuur were killed in the middle of what should have been a quiet period,’ Chandler snapped. ‘If Graham’s right and this man has hobby killings that deviate from his usual modus operandi, we might not even be able to detect him. That means that we have a week or two or maybe three if we’re lucky, and then we’ll have nothing.’ 

Miles was no longer frowning. The way he watched Chandler was unsettlingly open. 

‘And if that happens, sir, it’s not your fault,’ he said. 

‘Won’t it?’ 

Miles sighed. 

‘This is what’s going to happen,’ he said. ‘You’re going to come and have dinner with my family. You’re going to let Judy serve you seconds, and you’re going to tell the boys exciting stories and you’re going to play with my baby daughter. Then we’re going to go feed my fish and have a drink. After that, I’m going to drive you home, and you’re going to sleep.’ 

Chandler leaned back. He felt suddenly light-headed, and a little like he might cry. 

‘Is that the voice you use when Liam and Ben won’t go to bed?’ 

Miles rolled his eyes. 

‘Oh shut up.’

***

Miles had been right that dinner would not be a quiet affair – Chandler had ended up sitting in between Miles’ sons, who both peppered him with questions about catching baddies and why he wore a waistcoat and if he liked footie. It had taken a few minutes to get used to it, but in the end he had told them about boxing at school and had explained the basic rules of cricket. ‘But it’s such a _gay_ game!’ Liam had said when he first mentioned it, which was followed by Miles shouting ‘don’t you use that word like that, lad!’ Little Martha had been gurgling on Miles’ shoulder all through dinner, leaving Judy free to busy around the kitchen. After dinner, when his hosts refused to let him help with the dishes, Chandler had instead been left with the baby, who fell asleep with her downy head against his cheek. After the drink Miles had promised him, Judy drove him home. Chandler thought he could still smell the baby’s head. It was a safe smell, the memory of it binding with the alcohol and calming him. He still felt a little fragile, but the horrors he spent his days thinking about seemed far away. It was difficult to imagine that those violent murders could happen in a world where a baby fell asleep clutching your lapel.

He woke the next morning feeling much clearer than the day before. As always, he was the first in the incident room. When Miles, Riley and Mansell appeared, he had just finished amending the list of victims. The two new names were added in a different coloured pen. 

‘What’s this, sir?’ Riley said, gesturing at the board. 

‘Let’s wait until everyone is here.’ 

Kent came rushing in three minutes later. 

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said, struggling out of his coat. He looked like he had barely slept.

‘You look awful, mate,’ Mansell said. Then, leaning closer, he asked: ‘Did you pull last night?’ 

‘No,’ Kent exclaimed, blushing furiously. 

‘Alright,’ Chandler said, interrupting them. ‘There have been some developments in the case. Yesterday, Mr Graham and I identified two more victims of the Chesapeake Ripper. Cassie Boyle and Marissa Shuur, killed in between Miriam Lass and Andrew Caldwell. This means that we are dealing with seventeen victims rather than fifteen.’ 

The silence was heavy. 

‘In addition, Will Graham has had to go back to America.’ It seemed kinder not to elaborate why. He waited for someone else to speak, but no one did. ‘How are the other leads going?’ 

‘There’s nothing to connect the victims,’ Riley said. ‘Halifax doesn’t seem to have visited the coffee shop where Tracy worked, we haven’t found any mutual friends or acquaintances, they live on opposite sides of the East End.’ 

‘No hobbies in common, no common haunts, nothing,’ Mansell said. 

‘We might have to face what Graham said about the Chesapeake Ripper not knowing his victims at all,’ Chandler said. 

‘But he must find them somehow,’ Kent objected. ‘He’s not just picking them at random.’ 

‘He might have any number of ways to do that,’ Chandler said. ‘They might be chance meetings. We have no way to track that. What about the car?’ 

‘There are three cars of that make and model that were reported stolen in the past month,’ Riley said. ‘There’s no way to tell which one it was on the footage, if it’s one of them at all.’ 

‘Anything else?’ 

Nothing. 

‘We must have some lead,’ he said. 

‘I had a thought,’ Miles said. ‘Not a lead, but perhaps it’s something. Both our victims were mutilated using a surgical saw and a scalpel, right?’ 

‘Right.’ 

‘It can’t be easy bringing that kind of thing with you from America.’ 

‘You could probably put it in your sent luggage,’ Kent said. 

‘But customs might open it. Even if you’re a surgeon, how do you explain carrying about a saw?’ 

‘It’s a fair point,’ Chandler said. 

‘Perhaps he gets them from his job,’ Riley said. 

‘Maybe, but wouldn’t people notice?’ Miles said. ‘If he’s as clever as we think he is, would he risk getting sacked for stealing from his workplace?’ 

‘So where would he get them from?’ Mansell asked. 

‘Surgical supplies shops,’ Chandler said. 

‘Exactly,’ Miles said. ‘And those places usually ask you for ID.’ 

‘This is worth following up on,’ Chandler said. ‘The quicker we can cover the ground, the better, so I want all of you on it. I have to report the new developments to DCI Gibson, but I will join you once it’s done. We can’t assume the killer came to London recently. Ask about the past four months. That is the earliest he could have come here.’ 

Riley and Mansell were already on their feet, and Miles was putting on his coat. Kent moved slower, but caught up with Chandler by his office door. 

‘Could I sit this one out, sir?’ he asked under his breath. 

‘This could lead somewhere, Kent,’ Chandler said. ‘We need everyone on it.’ 

‘I know, sir,’ Kent murmured. ‘It’s just… I don’t like doctors.’ 

Chandler considered it. He had seen Kent’s apprehension around hospitals first-hand, and it had not been improved by the striping. 

‘There must be online businesses selling medical supplies,’ he said. ‘I want you to contact them and ask about their procedures.’ 

Kent straightened up. 

‘Right, sir. I’ll do that.’ He hesitated to leave. ‘Ed said he might need help in the archive later today. Do you mind if I…?’ 

‘That’s fine,’ Chandler said. ‘Just get the online stores done first.’ 

‘Yessir.’ 

Chandler went into his office and closed the door. He had been falling behind on the administrative side of things. As he organised what needed to be done, he glanced up now and again. The whole team was gone apart from Kent, who was at his computer, tapping away. A little later, he saw him on the phone. He could not hear what he was saying, but he seemed torn between attempting to charm the customer services and giving in to his frustrations. After one of the phone calls, Chandler left his desk and went into the incident room. 

‘Any luck?’ 

‘Not really, sir,’ Kent said. ‘They won’t give us anything on customers without a warrant, unsurprisingly. But everyone I’ve talked to says that they’re really strict about who they sell to.’ 

‘If you know what you’re doing, it’s probably easy to fool them,’ Chandler said. ‘Perhaps this is how our killer is getting his tools.’ 

‘I don’t know, sir,’ Kent said, tapping his pen against the desk. ‘Almost all these companies use delivery services that require signatures. So even if you used a false name, you couldn’t just send it anywhere. Someone has to be on the other end.’ 

‘He could find a way around that,’ Chandler mused. ‘But it would leave a paper-trail.’

‘I’ll just see where this takes me, sir,’ Kent said quickly, clearly not wanting to seem like he was skiving off. 

‘Fine,’ Chandler said. ‘I don’t think it’s worth antagonising them about customer lists. Just ask about restrictions and shipping.’ 

‘Will do, sir.’

He retreated into his office and dug out his tiger balm. He felt the cracks that he had hoped had healed from last night threatening to open again. He should have anticipated that the businesses would be unhappy about their inquiries. Still, it was worth pursuing. They had no other leads, after all.

After an hour, Kent admitted defeat and was given permission to help Buchan. Chandler had expected him to go downstairs, but instead he stayed at his computer, reading something on the screen. By noon, Chandler’s phone rang. 

‘DI Chandler.’ 

‘Boss, it’s a bust,’ Miles said. ‘And not the good kind. No one wants to show us their records.’ 

Chandler sighed. 

‘Not surprising, unfortunately.’ 

‘No. And no one can remember an American coming in and buying anything, let alone sharps.’ 

‘Do they keep any kind of paperwork on customers?’ 

‘Some of them said they keep names. Others seem to just check a box that they’ve looked at the customer’s credentials.’ 

As Miles spoke, Chandler looked up. There had been the grating sound of a chair being pushed back suddenly. Kent was standing up, still looking at his computer. Then he sprinted to the printer, grabbed the newly printed pages and set off at a run towards the stairs. 

‘Another dead end, then,’ Chandler sighed, looking back at his desk. 

‘I’m afraid so. If we had a name or a description, we might have more luck.’ 

‘Are we wrong to assume that he’s American?’ Chandler asked. ‘He might be an expat.’ 

Miles sighed. 

‘Who the hell knows at this point?’ 

‘Well, you’d better make your way back,’ Chandler said. ‘This has clearly been a wild goose chase.’ 

‘Alright. See you, boss.’ 

The line went dead. Taking advantage of the empty incident room, Chandler put his face in his hands. He did not know where to go from here. He could not wait until a third person was killed… 

The banging of a door made him look up. It was Kent, who had forced the door to the stairwell open and was now holding it up. Buchan followed him through it, carrying some files. They paused and redistributed the papers, then hurried towards Chandler’s office. He sat up straight and put his hands on his desk, centring himself. Kent caught his eye through the glass, but he still knocked before opening it. 

‘Sir, I think we’ve got something,’ he said. There was an almost manic look in his eye. Ed positively shone. 

‘What is it?’ Chandler asked, looking from one to the other. 

Ed put down the pile of papers he had been carrying.

‘You remember the Botticelli murders?’ 

‘Of course.’ 

‘Well, young Kent here has been helping me with some digging,’ Ed said.

‘I’ve been going through old newspaper articles,’ Kent explained. ‘That’s why I was late this morning. I pulled an all-nighter.’ 

Chandler decided to let comments on the importance of sleep wait and instead said: 

‘I thought these murders weren’t widely reported.’ 

‘Not internationally, sir,’ Kent said. ‘But there was plenty in the Italian press.’

‘I didn’t know you spoke Italian,’ Chandler said. Kent shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. 

‘I did French and Italian at uni, and I spent my year abroad in Florence. I was happy to help. It feels sort of close to home.’ 

Ed was smiling now, proud of the talent he had at his disposal. Chandler could not help feel a little bothered that there was something about Kent that Ed knew and he didn’t. 

‘So what have you found?’ Chandler asked. Kent opened his file and handed over a print-out of a newspaper. 

‘I found the name of their prime suspect.’ 

‘The man they pinned it on?’ 

‘No,’ Kent said. ‘This is the bloke the investigating officer fancied for the murders.’ 

‘But he was cleared,’ Chandler said. ‘They found nothing on him.’ 

‘On its own, it’s simply a historical curiosity,’ Ed said. ‘But there is some interesting aspects to this.’

‘I looked him up, to find out more,’ Kent explained. ‘It turns out he’s a doctor. He has a practice in Baltimore – and he’s in London right now, as some kind of visiting lecturer.’ 

He handed over the file. They were print-outs from two websites, one extensive one and one shorter, seemingly from a project website. Chandler looked at the photograph attached to the text. The black-and-white of the printer had thrown the contrasts out of whack, but he could still tell that this man was striking. Even in a grainy photo, he got a sense of charisma. 

‘He’s a psychiatrist,’ Chandler observed. 

‘He is now,’ Kent said. ‘But he used to be a surgeon. The FACS after his name means he’s a fellow of the American College of Surgeons. He’s well-published, too. Look.’

He reached over and leafed past the biographies. It was an article from an academic journal. 

‘I printed out everything I could find by him,’ Kent explained. Chandler looked through it quickly. From what he could tell, it was an impressive output, with articles about everything from thoracic surgery to the intersection of personality disorders and addiction. Many of them were published in journals Chandler recognised the name of. There were at least three from the _Lancet_.

‘I’m surprised you got hold of these,’ Chandler said. ‘This kind of thing is usually behind a paywall.’ 

‘Let’s just say I spend my money wisely,’ Ed said, grinning. Chandler smiled. He should have realised Ed would have subscriptions to online archives. 

‘So he retrained,’ Chandler said, returning to the matter at hand. 

‘Yes. It says on his CV that he was certified as a psychiatrist in 2005.’ 

Chandler looked back at the biography.

‘Hannibal Lecter,’ he read. ‘Named after the Carthaginian general.’

He put aside the papers and looked from the DC to the historian. 

‘Let me be clear,’ he said. ‘You’re suggesting that the Botticelli murders aren’t a historical parallel, but are actually connected to the Chesapeake Ripper case?’ 

‘They do fit the criteria for a Chesapeake Ripper murder,’ Kent pointed out. ‘They’re dressed, posed and mutilated, and there were surgical trophies taken.’ 

‘The only reason they have never been connected is that they were perpetrated in a different part of the world,’ Ed said. ‘There was no reason to look further afield than America. Even if one did, there was no discernible connection. But now there is one.’ He tapped the photo lying on the desk. 

‘We can’t build a case on coincidences,’ Chandler said. ‘All we know is that he was in the places where these crimes were committed.’ 

‘With all due respect, sir, at some point coincidence stops being coincidence,’ Kent said. ‘This isn’t like someone being in London and then in Manchester on some given dates. This is halfway across the world, over a twenty year period. What are the odds that two people were in Florence, Baltimore and London at exactly these times?’ 

Chandler considered it. He had a point. 

‘It’s definitely worth looking into.’ He looked at them each in turn. ‘Good job.’ Ed smiled warmly, and Kent dipped his head, trying to hide the flush on his cheeks. 

‘If we’re going to run with this, there is one other thing that needs to be established,’ Chandler continued. ‘And that is whether he was in Minnesota when the murders of Cassie Boyle and Marissa Shuur happened.’ 

‘I’ll get right onto it, sir.’

‘Ed, can you find out more about Lecter’s personal history?’ 

‘Of course.’

They left quickly, each heading to their respective tasks. Chandler looked back at the print-outs Kent had left with him. There was a photograph that seemed to be from the website of Lecter’s practice. He was standing beside his desk, one hand resting on it. His pose gave it the look of a Renaissance portrait. Chandler put his finger on the picture, just by the edge of the desk, and moved it sideways. He stood up and walked to the side of his desk, mimicking Lecter’s pose, his left hand resting on the surface. Then he flattened his palm against it and pushed it along the surface, against his leg. The desk reached the same place on his leg as it did on Lecter’s in the picture. He must be six foot, give or take an inch or two. From where he stood, Chandler could see the CCTV still on the whiteboard, depicting the tall figure, grainy in the lamplight. He looked back at the photo on his desk. Lecter’s dark eyes gazed up at him, assertive despite the lifeless medium. Chandler looked away, too shaken by the possibility of what those eyes might have seen.


	3. Chapter 3

By next morning, when Chandler blue-tacked an enlarged passport photo on the whiteboard, the whole team had heard the name Hannibal Lecter. Nevertheless, Chandler wanted to be thorough. 

‘This is our person of interest,’ he said. ‘Hannibal Lecter. I hesitate to call him a suspect, although that might be what he is. Right now, we are simply trying to establish any links he has.’ 

‘What a name,’ Mansell said, half-laughing. ‘D’you think they’ll call him Hannibal the Cannibal?’ 

‘Let’s not jump to confusions about his involvement,’ Chandler said. ‘That being said, he fits the FBI profile remarkably well. He is a medical doctor with surgical training, although he is currently a psychiatrist. He is forty-five, which is well within the age-range Crawford and Graham put down. He owns a house in Baltimore which - from the outside at least - seems to be spacious. It might include a basement, which would fit the requirement of having somewhere to do his work. He is unmarried and lives alone.’ 

‘So far, so ordinary,’ Riley said. 

‘There are enough coincidences that he has to be actively ruled out,’ Chandler said. ‘Ed?’ 

Ed stood up and cleared his throat. 

‘Hannibal Lecter, the eldest son of Augustas and Eglè Lecter, was born in 1967, in the northeast of Lithuania, which at that time was under Soviet occupation. He had a younger sister, Miša, who died in childhood. Also, his parents died when he was still a minor. He was therefore adopted by his uncle Robertus. Robertus lived in France at the time and had French citizenship.’ 

‘So through the adoption, Hannibal became French too,’ Kent supplied. 

‘Robertus sent his nephew to boarding school in Paris,’ Ed continued. ‘He stayed there for university to study medicine. Now, this is where things get interesting. In 1992, Lecter was twenty-five and had just finished his first year of hospital training. For the summer, he went to Italy, specifically Florence. He appears to have been there to volunteer at a hospital. The location itself was likely due to his love for the art of the Renaissance. As it so happened, it was during the summer of 1992 that seven people in Florence were killed and posed in a rather remarkable fashion.’ 

Ed produced crime-scene photographs and showed them to Riley, Mansell and Miles. Chandler took the opportunity to take over the story. 

‘The lead investigator fixated on Lecter as a suspect. His evidence was tenuous at best, but I think it’s possible that his hunch was right.’ 

‘The only thing connecting Lecter to the killings was his fascination with a specific painting in the Uffizi gallery,’ Ed said. ‘The police ransacked Lecter’s apartment, tore up the floors, dismantled everything. They found nothing.’

‘But he was working at a hospital,’ Miles said. ‘Seems like a good place to dispose of evidence of blood.’ 

‘And unless we’re wrong about the motive of the surgical trophies, there would be no evidence of the missing organs,’ Ed supplied. 

‘The Florence murders are still considered unsolved,’ Chandler said. ‘And DC Kent and Mr Buchan are right that they are remarkably similar to the Chesapeake Ripper murders. While we’re investigating Lecter, we’ll treat them as connected.’ 

‘What if they’re not connected?’ Miles asked. ‘Then he might be innocent. Or perhaps it’s a trigger. He gets accused of the murders when he has nothing to do with it. Something in his brain snaps. He starts killing.’ 

‘It takes rather more than that to become a serial killer,’ Ed said, sounding unimpressed. ‘No one undergoes that transformation overnight.’ 

‘If we assume that the murders are linked, Lecter looks like a great suspect,’ Miles said, getting worked up now. ‘With all due respect, boss, if the Florence murders are a coincidence, then all we have on Lecter is that he is a doctor from Baltimore who’s in London now.’ 

‘But the odds of finding this type of murder at two points of a man’s life with no connection between them!’ Buchan exclaimed. ‘That would only be expected if he was a criminologist or a detective. This man’s a surgeon!’ 

‘Gentlemen,’ Chandler said loudly. Ed exhaled and puffed his chest out. Miles crossed his arms. ‘This is not an ideal lead, but it is one. As I said, we are not attempting to prove his guilt, we are trying to rule him out.’ 

‘Fine,’ Miles said and sat down. Chandler pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. 

‘Kent, would you continue?’ 

Kent got to his feet. 

‘So, after the Florence debacle, Lecter went back to Paris. He finished his training. As soon as he was done, he got a visa to the States. He did some internships which got him a valid American medical licence in 1998. Then he became a resident at Johns Hopkins. From there, he worked in the A&E as a surgeon until seven years ago, when he retrained as a psychiatrist. He’s been practicing that ever since. By the looks of it, he’s well-regarded.’ 

‘No lawsuits? Complaints?’ Chandler asked. 

‘Not as far as I could find,’ Kent said. ‘That doesn’t exclude it, though. Not everyone wants to be public about being unhappy with treatment, especially if they don’t want to admit they’ve seen a psychiatrist in the first place.’ He looked at his notes. ‘He got American citizenship in 2002.’ 

‘Did he renounce his French citizenship?’ Chandler asked. 

‘It seems that way,’ Kent said. 

‘But he might still have Lithuanian citizenship,’ Ed added. ‘As he was born in Lithuania and left during Soviet rule, I think he might technically still be a citizen.’ 

‘So he could walk into the Lithuanian embassy and get himself a passport?’ Miles said to clarify. 

‘I’m not an expert in civil law, but it could be.’ 

‘That would make him an EU citizen,’ Chandler said. His imagination was running away from him. If, _if_ this was their man, and he went on the run, he could get lost on the Continent. As long as he got across the Channel, he could disappear into the Schengen area, where the he could move freely from country to country without showing his passport. 

Chandler shook himself, reminding himself that they had no evidence against him. 

‘Do you know anything about his hobbies? Personal relationships?’ 

‘Not really,’ Kent said. ‘He doesn’t seem to use any social media. One of the websites where he had a bio had an “interests” section though, and that said cooking and classical music.’ 

‘Pretty generic,’ Chandler said, knowing that it was the kind of thing he had put down in similar sections. ‘What about criminal history?’ 

Ed perked up now. 

‘I made some informal inquiries with Baltimore PD,’ Kent said. ‘Lecter doesn’t have a record, not even points on his driving license. There is one thing, though.’ 

Ed handed him a folder he had dug out. Kent opened it and presented Chandler with a photograph. It was of a handsome black man in a well-tailored waistcoat. 

‘This is Tobias Budge,’ Kent said. ‘He ran a string shop in Baltimore. Authentic cat-gut.’ 

Ed smiled in a way that told Chandler that a gory detail was coming up.

‘And as it turns out - not only cat-gut.’ 

Chandler looked at Ed. 

‘You’re not saying he used humans?’ 

‘Oh, I am.’ 

Chandler looked back at the photo. However many serial killer cases he worked, he was still startled at how everyday these murderers looked. Budge looked like someone he could have been at school with. 

‘How many victims?’ 

‘They’re not sure, but at least five,’ Kent said, taking back the photo. 

‘What’s his connection to Lecter?’ 

‘The authorities were closing in on him,’ Kent explained. ‘It’s not entirely clear what happened, but they think that Budge thought a friend of him, Franklyn Froideveaux, had tipped off the police, so he went to find him.’ 

‘Mister Froideveaux was a patient of Dr Lecter’s,’ Ed said, ‘and was in the middle of an appointment with him when Budge found him.’ 

‘There was a struggle. Budge killed Froideveaux and tried to kill Lecter,’ Kent said. ‘In the end, Lecter killed Budge in self-defence.’ 

Chandler paused, taking this in. 

‘So he’s capable of killing,’ Miles said. 

‘Anyone is, given the right circumstances,’ Buchan said. 

‘And we’re assuming he’s telling the truth,’ Mansell said. ‘I assume he didn’t have CCTV in his office or anything.’ 

‘I don’t think so,’ Kent said. ‘It sounds pretty unlikely.’ 

‘So the whole thing about Budge killing Froy-what’s-his-name and then trying to kill Lecter is all Lecter’s story, right?’ 

‘He has a point, boss,’ Riley said. 

‘Yes,’ Chandler admitted. ‘But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’re decided to treat the Florence murders as connected for now. That brings us up to twenty-four victims. We’re not adding Budge and Froideveaux to that yet.’ It felt like attempting to use a faulty break while going downhill. Two days ago, their body count had been fifteen. Now, it had risen by nine. 

‘Kent, you’ve been in touch with Baltimore,’ he said. ‘Find out more about this incident. Try to see if you can find a way of finding out if Lecter was in Baltimore on the dates of the Minnesota killings. If he flew, his name might be on the flight lists. If he drove, he would have been gone for at least two days, and must be on dozens of cameras. But don’t tell them why we’re interested in this. The Chesapeake Ripper is a high-profile case, and I don’t want anything to leak to the press. Riley, Mansell, I want you to go through Halifax and Matthews’ diaries, appointment books, phones, emails. I want to know if either of them had any contact with Lecter. Miles, you and I are going to talk to Halifax’s assistant and Matthews’ coworkers. Ed, do you think you could dig into Lecter’s childhood?’ 

‘I’d need help,’ he said. ‘My Lithuanian is… non-existent.’ 

‘Sir, there’s a constable who’s half-Lithuanian,’ Riley said. ‘PC Bistras, I think.’

‘Excellent.’ 

They dispersed. Miles and Chandler only paused to find PC Bistras for Buchan and to print out a good quality picture of Lecter. Halifax’s assistant lived fairly close to the station. She opened the door tentatively when they knocked. She was in a dressing-gown, her hair held back with a scarf. 

‘Miss Tarello, I’m Detective Inspector Chandler. This is Detective Sergeant Miles.’ 

‘You’re here about Adrian,’ she said. She sounded lucid but very tired. ‘Um, do you want to come in?’ 

‘Thank you,’ Miles said, taking the lead. Miss Tarello walked into the small flat and sat down on the sofa, pausing to light a cigarette. Chandler drew up a chair, while Miles sat down on a footstool. 

‘Sorry I’m such a mess,’ she said, not looking at them. ‘Just… haven’t processed what happened, you know? I don’t really have anything to do, either. No job to go to. Yeah, sorry.’ 

‘Don’t you worry about it,’ Miles said. She looked up at them now, looking bewildered. 

‘Should I offer you tea?’ 

‘It’s fine,’ Miles assured her, making a placating hand-gesture. ‘We’re okay.’ She sank further back into the sofa with a sigh. There was a moment’s silence before she asked: 

‘I talked to the police-woman twice. I don’t know much more than what I told her. Adrian didn’t have any enemies. He was fun.’

Chandler took out an envelope from his inner pocket. 

‘Do you recognise this man?’ He took out the photograph and handed it to her. She took it from him and looked at it. Her gaze never changed. 

‘No,’ she said finally. ‘I’ve never met him.’ 

‘You never saw him around the gallery?’ 

‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Not as far as I know, at least.’ 

‘Did Adrian have meetings with clients where you wouldn’t be present?’ 

‘Sure,’ Miss Tarello said. ‘There were clients I never met, even if Adrian had worked with them for years.’ 

Miles put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. 

‘Does the name Lecter ring a bell?’ 

‘Lecker?’ Miss Tarello repeated. 

‘Lecter,’ Chandler said. ‘With a T.’ 

She searched her memory. 

‘I don’t think so.’ 

Chandler and Miles exchanged a glance. Then they both got up. 

‘Thank you for talking to us, Miss Tarello,’ Chandler said. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’ 

She shrugged and bit her lip, fighting back tears. 

‘Thanks.’ 

Miles smiled at her and squeezed her elbow. 

‘You take care of yourself, love.’ 

‘Thanks.’ 

She walked them to the door. When it had closed, they heard the sound of her locking and bolting it. Miles sighed as they went down onto the street. 

‘Poor woman.’ 

‘Yes.’ Chandler checked the map he had printed out. ‘It’s a bit of a trek to the coffee shop. Do you mind walking?’ 

Miles’ eyes narrowed, looking at him up and down. 

‘No, fine. Will probably do me good.’ 

They set off, walking in silence. When Miles finally spoke, Chandler had started to hope he would not say anything. 

‘You don’t like cigarette smoke?’ 

’No,’ Chandler admitted. ‘Especially not indoors.’ It felt like small particles of ash clung to his skin. He found a tissue in his pocket and wiped his hands. He could still feel Miles watching him. ‘It’s not important. I’m fine.’ 

They walked on. He was still aware of Miles eyeing him. When he broke the silence next, it was about the case. 

‘Do you think he’s our man?’ 

Chandler sighed. 

‘Every argument in favour feels like it could be one against.’ 

‘But putting that aside. What does your gut tell you?’ 

‘I think it could be him.’ He thought about it and then added: ‘But I can’t make arrests based on gut-feeling. Right now, it’s all circumstantial. It feels like we’re playing a numbers game. What are the odds that it’s unrelated and all that.’ 

There was a moment’s silence. 

‘You know I don’t agree with you on Buchan,’ Miles said. 

‘Yes, I know.’ 

‘But we couldn’t have found that Florence link without him.’ 

Chandler looked over at him. 

‘I thought you didn’t believe he was connected to them.’ 

‘It’s a pretty huge coincidence, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘How many times does the average person live in several cities where a serial killer with a very eye-catching MO happens to live?’ 

‘You’re right,’ Chandler agreed. ‘And it’s not only the deaths in Maryland and the ones in Italy. How often does someone end up with two dead bodies in his office? One of whom is wanted for murder?’ 

‘It’s peculiar to say the least.’ 

‘Not to mention the Minnesota murders. There was something Graham said - why would he be involved in the Shrike case? And it’s a fair point. I know that there is some kind of honour among thieves when it comes to serial killers - on occasion, one’s an admirer of another’s work - but this…’ 

‘He’s already got a perfectly good killing career in Maryland,’ Miles said. ‘Why go up north to skive off someone else’s fame?’ 

‘Exactly!’ 

‘So why did he do it?’ 

Chandler shook his head. 

‘I have no idea.’ His hand closed around the jar of tiger balm in his pocket. ‘Tracy Matthews was killed four days after Adrian Halifax,’ he said. ‘It’s three days since Matthews was killed today.’ 

‘We don’t know he’ll take the next victim after the same timespan,’ Miles said. 

‘He has before.’ 

‘Well, we can brood later,’ Miles said. ‘This is us.’ 

He crossed the street and entered a café. The wall behind the counter was decorated with old vinyl sleeves, and the music in the speakers was the kind of thing they had played at bops when Chandler was a student. There were benches running around the walls with unlacquered tables and chairs placed out. The breakfast crowd had left, and the only patrons were a couple of students who were chatting, their table covered in lecture notes. When Chandler and Miles stepped in, the barista, a petite woman with a septum piercing and a constellation tattooed on her shoulder, smiled at them. 

‘Good morning. What can I get you?’ 

Chandler went up to the bar and took out his warrant card. 

‘I’m Detective Inspector Chandler. This is Detective Sergeant Miles. We’re investigating the murder of Tracy Matthews.’ 

The woman’s face fell. 

‘Of course,’ she said, resigned. ‘How can I help?’ 

‘You worked with Tracy, Miss…?’ 

‘Daisy Stevens. Yeah, I did. For about two years.’ 

‘Miss Stevens,’ Chandler said and nodded. ‘Did you socialise?’ 

‘Not very much,’ Daisy said. ‘We often worked the same shifts, though, so I knew her fairly well.’ 

‘I’d like you to look at a photograph.’ 

She went a little pale, and Miles said: 

‘It’s nothing graphic, it’s just a picture of someone Tracy might have known.’ 

‘Oh. Okay.’ She swallowed, clearly nervous. Chandler took out the photograph from its envelope and placed it on the counter. 

‘Do you recognise this man, Daisy?’ he asked. She looked at the photo. 

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’s been here a few times.’ 

‘When was that?’ Chandler asked. It took all his self-control not to betray his excitement. Daisy thought about it. 

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I don’t think he’s been in recently. I was off work for a fortnight in September, because I broke my ankle so I couldn’t stand. I don’t think I’ve seen him since before that.’ 

‘So not in three weeks? A month?’ Miles said. 

‘Something like that.’ 

‘Do you remember anything about him?’ Chandler asked. She looked back at the photo. 

‘He had an accent,’ she said finally. ‘He sounded… I dunno, French perhaps?’ 

‘Did you chat to him?’ Miles asked. 

‘He asked a few things about our coffee beans,’ she recalled. ‘Where they’re from, how we roast them, that sort of thing. He was nice. He knew his stuff.’

‘Did he interact at all with Tracy?’ Chandler asked. 

‘No, not as far as I know,’ Daisy said. ‘But he was here at least once when she was working. She’d just broken up with her boyfriend, and she was a total mess. To be honest, she was acting like a bitch. I remember because this guy–’ she pointed at the photo ‘–came in just when I was telling her to get a grip. I had a ton of other things I thought of saying to her, but then there was a customer, so I just told her to go help in the kitchen and served him. I’m kind of glad I did that. I would have felt so awful if I’d said those things to her.’ 

‘Do you have CCTV?’ 

‘Yeah, but I think they wipe it every month.’ 

Chandler thought through what she had said. 

‘Do you remember how he paid?’ 

Daisy thought about it. 

‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘He asked if we had a card limit. We do, but he was just over it, so he paid by card.’ 

Miles and Chandler looked at each other. 

‘We’d like to see your records.’ 

Daisy looked uncertain. 

‘You’ll have to talk to Grace, the manager,’ she said. ‘I don’t have access to that kind of thing.’ 

‘Is she here?’ Chandler asked. 

‘Not today. Wait…’ Daisy dug out her phone, fed some blank receipt paper from the till and jotted down a phone number. ‘This is her number. She’s usually good at picking up the phone.’ 

‘Thank you, Daisy. You’ve been a great help.’ 

Daisy smiled a little and shrugged. 

‘I hope you find whoever did this. Tracy was a real sweetheart. I miss her.’ 

‘We’re doing everything we can,’ Miles said. They said goodbye and hurried down the street. As they walked, Chandler handed over the number to the café manager to Miles. 

‘I think you’d better take this one. I’ll call the team.’ 

‘Alright.’ 

They stopped and took out their phones. It took a while before someone picked up the phone in the incident room. 

‘Mansell,’ a voice said on the other end of the line. 

‘Mansell, concentrate on Halifax,’ Chandler said, not bothering to identify himself. ‘We’ve found a connection to Matthews.’ 

‘Great!’ Mansell exclaimed. ‘I’ll pass it on, sir.’ 

The line went dead. Miles was still on the phone, weighing from one foot to the other. 

‘Yes, of course… I appreciate tha-… No. Alright, we’ll get back to you. Thank you.’ He hung up and sighed. ‘Manager won’t let us look at anything without a warrant.’ 

‘Not entirely surprising,’ Chandler said. He did not even feel bothered by it. He felt a kind of excitement he had always assumed was made up for detective stories. ‘We shouldn’t have any problem getting one.’ 

They started walking back to the station, briskly. 

‘And when we get it?’ Miles asked. 

‘We find Lecter’s name on the records and go pay him a visit.’ 

‘We should wait. We’ll tip him off if we turn up.’ 

‘If we have a paper trail tying him to Matthews, we can intimate that it’s just routine.’ 

‘He could be dangerous, sir. Buchan told me that our killer cut an FBI agent’s arm off and sent it to Crawford.’ 

‘I want to get a feel for him,’ Chandler said. ‘See him in his natural habitat.’ 

‘He’s a killer, not a rare bird.’ 

‘You seem convinced it’s him.’ 

‘There’s only so much coincidence that can happen,’ Miles said. ‘Anyway, on the topic of birds…’ 

‘Leave it, Miles.’ 

‘Fine. Let’s go write a warrant request.’

***

As Chandler had thought, the warrant went through quickly. By the early afternoon, Kent was scouring through the financial records of the café. Mansell and Riley were still combing through Halifax’s life to find Lecter’s name. The more he thought about it, the more convinced Chandler was that they would find something to connect them. Perhaps it would be peripheral, but it would be there. His mood was so good that he went down to see how Buchan was getting on, and found him enjoying the company of the PC enough that he retreated.

It was past five when Kent jumped from his chair and shouted: 

‘Sir! Found him!’ 

Everyone converged on his desk. 

‘Here,’ he said, pointing. ‘Third of September, 10.15. Lecter, H.’ 

‘Excellent,’ Chandler said. ‘Kent, with me.’

‘Where are we going, sir?’ 

‘We’re going to go see our suspect.’ 

‘Be careful, boss,’ Miles said. 

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Keep looking.’ 

‘Right you are, boss.’ 

Chandler picked up his coat and put it on, taking the stairs three at a time. Kent was on his heels, still struggling to put his coat on. When they got into the car, he asked: 

‘How do you want to play this, sir?’ 

‘We’re making routine inquiries. He was in the café where Tracy Matthews worked during one of her shifts, and we’re talking to everyone.’ 

‘If you’d like, I could have a look around,’ Kent said. ‘Ask to use the loo and lose my way…’ 

‘Under no circumstances,’ Chandler said. ‘We don’t want to arouse his suspicion. If we’re right about him, he’ll know that trick.’ 

They were silent for most of the ride, leaving the East End for Belgravia. They parked outside the address and stepped out. 

‘Nice neighbourhood,’ Kent said. Chandler nodded curtly and climbed the steps to the front-door. Waiting for Kent to catch up, he took a deep breath, centring himself. Then he rang the doorbell.

The ring sounded from inside the house, chiming out into nothingness. Silence followed. Chandler felt his heart beat out the seconds. 

The lock clicked and the door opened. 

His first thought upon seeing Hannibal Lecter was that the photographs did not do him justice. It was unmistakably the same face – the strangely coloured eyes, the wide, somewhat sensual mouth, the fine spider-web of creases at his temples – but negatives and digital image files could not capture his magnetism. He felt equal parts fascination and aversion. He could not recall having had such a strange response to anyone. 

‘May I help you?’ the man said. His accent was soft, parts French and parts something else which Chandler first thought of as Slavic, before he remembered that Lithuanian was not a Slavic language but Baltic. Acting on muscle memory, he took out his warrant card. 

‘I’m Detective Inspector Joseph Chandler. This is Detective Constable Emerson Kent. Whitechapel police. Are you Mister Lecter?’ He purposefully used the wrong title. 

‘Doctor Lecter, but yes.’ 

‘My apologies,’ Chandler said. ‘May we have a word?’ 

Doctor Lecter smiled. 

‘Naturally. Please, come in.’ 

He stepped aside, letting them file in. It was with some trepidation Chandler heard him lock the door behind them. 

‘Come in,’ he said again, leading them to the living room. It was nicely furnished, but fairly modern and impersonal. In his paisley three-piece suit, Lecter looked rather out of place. ‘May I offer you coffee?’ 

‘No, thanks,’ Kent said. 

‘We won’t take up much of your time,’ Chandler said. Lecter smiled and gestured to them to take the sofa. Chandler sat back, trying to look as relaxed as possible. Kent sat straight-backed with his hands clasped on his knees, looking a little awkward. Chandler thought that perhaps he should have said yes to the coffee, just so he could tell Kent to relax. Then again, he did not feel keen on the idea of drinking anything prepared by their suspect. 

‘You are a long way from Whitechapel, Detective Inspector,’ Lecter said, sitting down in an armchair and crossing his legs, mirroring Chandler’s stance. ‘What can I do for you?’ 

‘We’re investigating a recent murder, and are making routine enquiries as to anyone who might have met the victim,’ he explained. ‘Your name appeared in the financial records of her workplace.’ 

‘And what was that?’

‘A café called the Coffee Bean,’ Kent said. Lecter nodded. 

‘Yes, I know it.’ 

‘Are you a regular?’ Kent asked. 

‘I could not say I am. I have been there three, maybe four times. Someone was murdered?’ 

‘I’m afraid so,’ Kent said. Chandler took out a photograph of Tracy Matthews. 

‘Does this woman look familiar?’ 

Lecter took the photograph from him and studied it. 

‘No,’ he said. ‘I do not remember her. This is the woman who was killed?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘She worked at the Coffee Bean?’ 

‘That’s right.’ 

Lecter looked back at the photo, frowning. 

‘I cannot remember seeing her there.’ He handed the photograph back. ‘But she may have been there. I may simply not have registered her.’ 

‘Thank you,’ Chandler said, putting the photo away. He looked around the room. ‘Are you renting this place?’

‘Correct. I am guest-lecturing at Imperial College London.’ 

‘In what?’ Kent asked. 

‘Psychiatry.’ 

‘Interesting,’ Kent said, clearly not knowing what else to say. 

‘Dr Lecter, do you remember when you were last at the Coffee Bean?’ 

Lecter thought back. 

‘It might have been at the end of August, or the beginning of September,’ he said. 

‘Have you not had reason to go to Whitechapel since then?’ Chandler asked. 

‘Not really, and, despite giving it several chances, I found their coffee underwhelming. There are better cafés closer to home.’ 

The floorboards in the hallway creaked. All three of them looked over. Chandler did not know what to expect, but it was not this. There was a teenage girl standing in the doorway, looking at them with nervous eyes. 

‘Are you policemen?’ she asked. Kent got to his feet quickly. 

‘Yes.’ 

Lecter stood too and crossed to her. 

‘There’s nothing to be worried about,’ he said softly. ‘They’re just asking some questions.’ 

Her eyes flickered up at him, searching for reassurance. He smiled at her and took her hand. She relaxed and smiled back. She glanced at Chandler and Kent again, then left. Lecter remained by the doorway until they could hear her climbing the stairs.

‘My daughter,’ he explained. ‘She worries.’ 

‘Perfectly understandable.’ Chandler stood up too. ‘Thank you for your time, Dr Lecter.’ 

Lecter smiled slightly and extended his hand. Chandler took it. His grip was warm and firm. 

‘Thank you for coming by.’

Lecter shook Kent’s hand too and walked them out, thanking them again. They both nodded goodbye and stepped outside. The door closed behind them. Chandler made his way down the steps as he buttoned his coat, Kent at his heel. When they reached the pavement, Kent asked:

‘What do you make of him, sir?’ 

‘I’m not sure. You?’ 

‘He’s very… charming. Charismatic,’ Kent said, grimacing at the words. They were stereotypes, after all. Chandler could sense his unease about the encounter. He thought Kent felt the same thing as he did, that if he had met this man in any other context, he would have liked him. There was something sickening about that thought. ‘Did you notice how he didn’t ask about the murder at once?’ Kent asked. 

‘Yes.’ It was not criminal or even directly suspicious, but it felt like the question whether the person whose photo one had been handed was dead should come first. It was not the only thing that bothered him about the interview either. ‘Have you come across anything mentioning that he has a daughter?’ 

‘Nothing at all, sir.’ 

‘Hm.’ 

There were innocent explanations for that. Perhaps he had had a brief relationship some eighteen years ago and not found out that it had resulted in a child until recently. Actually, Chandler was not sure what explanations would not be innocent, but something about the girl’s fear had put him on edge. 

Kent seemed about to say something on the subject, but he stopped himself, nodding ahead. Chandler followed his nod. A female PC was making her way towards them hurriedly. 

‘Excuse me, sir,’ she said, in a way that made it clear that she had spotted them as colleagues. ‘Were you just in number 58?’ 

‘Yes,’ Kent said, unable to stop himself. 

‘How come you ask, Constable?’ Chandler said. They both pulled out their warrant-cards and showed her to formalise her hunch. She nodded, unsurprised. 

‘I was wondering if it was about the incident the night before last, sir.’ 

Chandler frowned. 

‘There was an incident?’ 

‘You weren’t here for that?’ 

Chandler looked around. They were too close to Lecter’s front windows for his comfort. 

‘Let’s talk in the car, PC…?’ 

‘Sutherland, sir.’ 

‘PC Sutherland.’ 

Kent took a seat in the back, while PC Sutherland got into the passenger seat. Chandler drove them several blocks down before finding a good place to stop. 

‘Alright,’ he said. ‘What was this incident?’ 

‘The neighbours called 999 at about half past eleven,’ PC Sutherland said. ‘They said they’d heard a man shouting from number 58. Apparently it sounded really violent. Me and my partner responded.’ 

‘What had happened?’ Kent asked. 

‘Nothing really,’ PC Sutherland said. ‘Doctor Lecter answered the door at once when we got there. He was very gracious – let us in. There was nothing to indicate a struggle.’ 

‘Was there anyone there with him?’ Chandler asked. 

‘Yes, there was another man,’ she said. ‘I think he was the one who’d been shouting. He looked exhausted and was all hoarse, like he’d been yelling at the top of his lungs. He was pretty calm, though. He had clearly cooled off. It didn’t seem like the fight had been physical. They both said they were fine. I think it was just a lovers’ tiff.’ 

‘What was the name of the other man?’ 

Sutherland searched her memories. 

‘It was one of those names where the surname could be a first name,’ she said. ‘I put it in my report, of course, but I can’t remember it now.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. I just thought it was some bloke having a go at his boyfriend.’ 

‘Was there anyone other than Dr Lecter and the other man there?’ Kent asked. 

‘No,’ PC Sutherland said. ‘We went through the house. It was only the two of them.’ 

Kent and Chandler exchanged looks.

‘Would you be able to send me your report?’ Chandler asked. 

‘Of course, sir,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I can’t remember the other’s name.’ 

‘You’ve been a great help.’ 

She unclipped her seatbelt and left. Kent moved into the passenger seat again. Chandler could feel him watching him, waiting for him to say something. 

‘What do you think, sir?’ 

Chandler sighed. 

‘Even murderers might have harmless domestic disputes.’ 

‘I suppose so, sir,’ Kent said. ‘But…’ He stopped himself. ‘I’ve been reading a lot recently. I wanted to get a better understand of it all, see. The thing is, it’s pretty common for serial killers to be abusive towards their partners.’ 

Chandler thought of it. 

‘It might give us an in,’ he said finally. ‘Perhaps even something we could hold him on. Good thinking, Kent.’ He started the engine again and backed out of the parking-space. 

‘It’s no certainty, of course,’ Kent said. 

‘But it’s a possibility,’ Chandler said. 

It took Kent a few moments before he spoke again. 

‘What about the daughter? She wasn’t in the house?’

‘Or somewhere in the house where they couldn’t find her?’ Chandler added. 

‘That was my first thought, to be honest,’ Kent said. ‘When she turned up. She looked so scared.’ 

‘But she didn’t seem scared of Lecter. She calmed down when he talked to her. I think it was us.’ 

‘She’s afraid of police?’ 

Chandler shook his head and sighed. 

‘I don’t know.’

They did not speak for the rest of the trip, each lost in their own thoughts. The quiet that had settled around them changed as soon as they entered the police station. Buchan was charging up the stairs, his arms full of notes. 

‘Joe! I’m glad I caught you. They said you were out before.’ 

‘Have you had any luck?’ 

‘Much more than I thought,’ he said, climbing the stairs at his side. ‘I didn’t expect to find much in the press. Newspapers were strictly censored under Soviet rule, and many unpleasant things were simply not reported.’ 

‘You found a way around it?’ 

‘My first thought was parish archives,’ Buchan said. ‘But those requests can take weeks. However, it turns out that the records of births and deaths have been digitalised.’ 

‘Did you find the sister?’ 

‘Yes. She was murdered.’ 

Chandler stopped in his stride. 

‘Did you find out how?’ 

‘There was nothing in the press at the time, but it turns out that people’s morbid curiosity serves some purpose after all. One of the cable channels runs a documentary series about strange or unsolved mysteries during the Soviet occupation. Some of it is rubbish, of course – UFO sightings and that kind of thing – but they cover actual cases too. It was Miss Bistras’ idea to check, and sure enough, there was an episode dedicated to the murder of Miša Lecter.’ 

‘Did you find it?’ 

‘Oh yes, it’s easy to find. We watched it several times. Miss Bistras took quite extensive notes. The short version of it all is this. In 1978, Miša and her brother, who is never named in the program but who we know as Hannibal, went for a walk. Only the brother returned, covered in blood. His explanation of what happened was disjointed, but it was clear to the authorities that Miša had been murdered. She was found later that week, dead. It took until 1985 before anyone was arrested for it. The suspect was a drifter. On his way from the prison to the court where he was going to be tried, he disappeared. He has not been seen since.’ 

‘Did he escape?’ 

‘Or was abducted. It’s very unclear.’ 

‘So he witnessed the murder of his sister?’ Kent said. His voice came out choked. ‘Or are you saying he killed her?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ Ed said. ‘The possibilities range from him being a witness to an accomplice to the perpetrator. One detail stands out, however. When the girl was found, some of the larger muscle-groups had been cut away.’ 

The pieces seemed to fall into place in front of Chandler’s eyes. 

‘You mean that she was cannibalised.’ 

‘Yes. It seems that way.’ 

‘And her brother either witnessed or participated in it?’ 

‘Which is the great question, but I don’t know,’ Ed admitted. ‘If it’s the former, it might be the trauma that set him on the path he is on now. If the latter, she was likely his first kill.’ He indicated the files he was carrying. ‘It reminded me of an earlier Soviet case, the Butcher of Rostov. He grew up during the man-made famine in Ukraine. There are plenty of reports of survival cannibalism from then. Apparently his mother would tell him that his brother had been captured, killed and eaten, and if he didn’t behave, the same would happen to him. No one has been able to verify whether that brother ever existed, but the story had an impact on him. For Lecter, it was not just a story. It was something he experienced.’ 

A heavy silence fell. Ed looked like he was about to say something else. 

‘Excuse me,’ Chandler said. Not looking back, he half-ran to the loos. He avoided looking in the mirror, just leaned both hands against the sink and tried to breathe. Unbidden images flashed before his eyes. A child covered in blood – little fingers dipping into it and being licked clean – teeth biting into raw flesh. The scenarios throbbed against his skull. He could not stop himself imagining that little girl’s body, her bones exposed. The feeling of being dirty seared through him. He shed his coat and waistcoat and pulled the shirt over his head. The sound of the tap running gave him something to concentrate on. The bar of soap had cracked in places, but smoothed out against his hands as he turned it again and again. Bubbles formed around the plughole, swelling and bursting.

He did not know how long he stood there. The skin on his knuckles felt raw from the scrubbing. He remembered himself as a child, and how his hands had bled. Again, the image of another child with someone else’s blood on his fingers struck him. He closed his eyes hard, willing it to leave him alone. 

The door opened, and the picture of the child was gone. Chandler looked up. Miles was standing there with one of Chandler’s unopened shirts under his arm.

‘Thought you’d need a new one,’ he said and placed it on the sink beside Chandler. He dried his hands and picked it up. 

‘Thank you.’ He put it on, feeling strangely exhausted. Once he was dressed, he asked: ‘Did you hear what Ed found?’ 

‘Yes.’ The word came out clipped. It occurred to Chandler that Liam was eleven, the same age Hannibal had been when his sister had died. Perhaps that was what he was thinking of.

He buttoned his waistcoat and picked up his coat. 

‘Come on.’ 

They made their way to the incident room. Buchan and the DCs were talking in hushed tones, but fell silent when Chandler appeared. 

‘Alright,’ he said, putting his coat over a chair and taking his place in front of the boards. ‘We need to focus.’ He flipped one of the boards around and picked up a pen. ‘We know a lot about Hannibal Lecter, but we will get nowhere with this unless we can tie him to the murders in London. What do we have?’ 

‘He had coffee at Tracy’s workplace,’ Miles said, ‘during one of her shifts.’ 

Chandler wrote down “patron at the Coffee Bean”. 

‘He’s got surgical knowledge,’ Kent said. Chandler wrote that down too. 

‘He fits the description of the man in the CCTV,’ Riley said. 

‘True,’ Chandler said, ‘but so do I. We can only use the CCTV for exclusion. There are too many men of around six foot with light skin in London.’ Nevertheless, he wrote “CCTV”. ‘What else?’ 

No one said anything. 

‘I think that’s it,’ Miles said eventually. 

‘We need to cover all our bases,’ Chandler said. ‘Mansell, Riley – I want to you to go back to the medical supply shops and ask if they recognise Lecter’s photo. He has an accent, which sounds mostly French, and his doctor’s license is American. That might jog someone’s memory. Kent, I want you to look into the daughter.’ 

‘Daughter?’ Ed repeated. ‘I have found nothing that he has any children. He’s never been married.’ 

‘Doesn’t mean he can’t have children,’ Chandler said. ‘She was at the house when we went to talk to him. She was seventeen or eighteen.’ He turned to Kent. ‘If that’s right, she’s born 1994 or 1995. That is around the time Lecter moved to the US, so check for anything in France and America.’ 

‘I’ll get right onto it, sir.’

‘Good.’ He looked at his sergeant. ‘Miles, something on your mind?’ 

‘It just struck me,’ he said. ‘When we first interviewed her, Halifax’s PA said that while he was still living in Baltimore, he was in a car accident. He wasn’t badly hurt, but they thought he might have post-traumatic stress. He was referred to a psychiatrist.’ 

‘You think he might have been Lecter’s patient?’ 

‘Or perhaps a colleague’s. If he finds them through chance meetings…’ 

‘Good idea. Look into it. Get in touch with his ex-wife. She might know.’

He made for office, and then turned. 

‘Ed?’ 

The archivist got to his feet. 

‘Yes, Joe?’ 

‘Good work on finding out about Miša.’ 

Ed bowed his head. 

‘I’m just sorry I can’t help with anything more useful.’ 

‘You’ve done plenty,’ Chandler assured him. ‘There’s no need for you to stay, though. It’s going to be a slog from now on.’ 

‘Well, I’ll be in the archive if you need me.’ 

Chandler went into his office. Phone out, watch off, tiger balm on the desk. He sat down heavily and put his hands out in front of him. Miles was orchestrating the others, but Chandler wished he would come into the office. There was no one else he could express his doubts to. 

_I think it’s him, I feel like it is, but we have nothing except circumstantial evidence._

_Murder does not follow a man through his life - from the age of eleven to the age of forty-five - if it has nothing to do with him._

_He will kill again tomorrow, if he stays true to form, and we have no way of stopping him._

He sighed, frustrated. This was like the Ripper all over again. From where he sat, he could just see the whiteboard where he had written down what they had on Lecter. It was nothing that would get them a warrant or hold up in court, much less in the press. The conviction that this was their man was not enough for any of that. In the years he had been DI, he had had three suspected serial killers slip between his fingers and, though he had arrested the Kray twins, they had never gone to trial. That left them the arrests of the blood fetishist, a few one-off murderers and some assorted assaults and GBHs. Even if those arrests - less than ten, if he remembered correctly - were good in themselves, it was a depressing count for him. At least with the Ripper, he had had a road-map - he had known when, and roughly where or who. But Lecter could take anyone, bring them someplace isolated, gut them and put them on display. There was not even any guarantee he would dump the body in Whitechapel. It might be even worse if it turned up somewhere else, and it became public knowledge that he had let two murders go unsolved before the killer moved off his turf. The press would have a field day. If they all fell within his catchment area, at least it would be a slightly smaller cock-up. But either way, someone would die.

It struck him now that he had not been in contact with Crawford since before the name Hannibal Lecter had been brought up. Perhaps that conversation would give him some new insights. He got his address book out and held the receiver with his shoulder as he dialled. The ring-tones passed slowly. Chandler started thinking that there would be no response. Then there was a click, and a gruff voice: 

‘Crawford.’ 

‘Hello. This is Joseph Chandler.’ 

‘DI Chandler,’ Crawford said. ‘I could use some good news. Do you have Will there?’ Before Chandler could answer, Crawford pressed on: ‘Because he’s not answering his phone. So you can tell him that his little pet project has bolted again and that he can get his ass back here and find her.’ 

Chandler stared at the receiver. He felt offended at being spoken to in that way. He was not one of his subordinates. Then confusion kicked in. 

‘Will Graham is back in the States.’ 

‘What?’ Crawford said. 

‘He went back two days ago. He said he couldn’t be involved in the case anymore.’ 

There was a long pause, long enough that he wondered if Crawford had hung up.

‘That doesn’t make sense.’ 

The door to the incident room slammed open. Chandler jumped and looked in bewilderment how Kent, Miles and Buchan hurried into his office. 

‘Sir, you have to see this,’ Kent said, not even lowering his voice. He placed a file on the desk. Chandler looked from it to Kent and then back. Turning back to the phone, he said:

‘I’m sorry, I’ll have to call you back.’ 

He put the receiver down and glared at the intruders.

‘This had better be important.’ 

‘It is, sir.’ Before he had time to open it himself, Kent opened the file and pointed. ‘PC Sutherland came in with the domestic disturbance report. Look.’ 

Chandler followed Kent’s finger. It was planted just above two words, a name. Everything around him seemed to have gone very still. 

‘There must be some mistake,’ he said finally. 

‘I asked PC Sutherland what he looked like, sir,’ Kent said. ‘It’s not just someone with the same name. The man in Lecter’s house was Will Graham.’ 

Chandler shut his eyes hard, trying to catch up. 

‘This can’t be right,’ he said finally. ‘For one thing, we didn’t identify Lecter as a suspect until the day after Graham removed himself from the investigation. So how could he know…?’ He interrupted himself, remembering the intent way that Graham had stared at the CCTV still. Had he recognised something familiar in that grainy image? ‘They must know each other from before,’ he said. Now, his mind had caught up, and instead was racing. ‘Graham wonder what the Chesapeake Ripper’s interest in the Minnesota Shrike case was. Why would he get involved? Perhaps the answer is Graham.’ 

Ed got an odd look on his face. 

‘Do you have the file on that case, Joe?’ 

Chandler took it out of his desk drawer. Ed leafed through it carelessly. 

‘What are you looking for?’ Chandler asked. 

‘I saw something in here,’ he said. ‘I’m almost certain…’ He stopped turning the pages and handed the file over. It was open on a print-out from a tabloid-like website. 

‘“It’s not very smart to piss off a guy who think of killing people for a living”?’ he read aloud. 

‘Here.’ Ed pointed lower down on the page. 

‘“Will Graham visited the daughter of the Minnesota Shrike in the company of renowned psychiatrist Hannibal Lecter.”’ He closed the folder roughly and let his hands fall heavily against the desk. The papers in the file were sticking out where they had detached. The photograph of the killer was almost halfway out of the folder. He opened it, prepared to collect the papers and tap them into a neat pile, but instead he froze. 

‘Boss?’ 

‘Look.’ He picked up the photograph and held it up to Kent. His eyes grew. 

‘But… that’s Lecter’s daughter.’ 

‘No,’ Chandler said. The thoughts were coming faster now than he could process them. ‘That’s the daughter of the Minnesota Shrike.’ The implications bombarded his brain, swelling inside his head. He still did not have enough information. He reached for the telephone again. ‘Kent, go to Will Graham’s hotel. Check if he’s still there.’ Kent nodded and was out of the door. ‘Miles, could you get in touch with the border and see if there is anything on when Abigail Hobbs came into the country?’ 

‘Sure.’ 

Ed looked at him, awaiting orders. 

‘Can you find me more on Abigail?’ Chandler asked, handing over the photograph. 

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ 

They dispersed, and Chandler dialled the same number as before. The answer came quickly this time. 

‘DI Chandler.’ Crawford sounded less annoyed now. Chandler did not have him down as the kind of person to apologise, but he thought there was a slight tinge of regret in the way he said his name. 

‘Tell me about Abigail Hobbs.’ 

‘What?’ 

‘You said something about Will’s pet project. What did you mean? Did you mean Abigail Hobbs?’ 

‘Yes,’ Crawford said, clearly confused. 

‘She’s in London. She is staying with our prime suspect.’ 

‘You have a suspect?’ Crawford said. ‘Why haven’t you told me about this?’ 

‘We have very little on him as of yet.’

‘What’s his name?’ 

‘Hannibal Lecter. It seems like Will knows him…’ 

‘ _I_ know him,’ Crawford interrupted. ‘I’ve had him consult on cases. I arranged for him to be Will’s therapist. He’s had me and my wife over for dinner at his house.’

Chandler was waiting for some backlash, “how dare you” or “he could never do something like that”. Instead, Crawford said: 

‘What do you have on him?’ 

‘As I said, it is circumstantial. He was suspected of a string of murders in Florence in 1992. He lives in Baltimore, and he is in London now. He is the right height and build to be the man on the CCTV, and we know he was at the café where the second victim worked. We haven’t found a link to the first, but we are pursuing it. Also, he fits your profile.’ 

He could hear Crawford breathing on the other end of the line. 

‘Let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘Abigail is staying with him? In London?’ 

‘Yes. He introduced her as his daughter.’ 

Crawford exhaled hard. It sounded like he was pacing. 

‘Unbelievable.’ 

‘Has he ever come up in the Chesapeake Ripper investigation?’ 

‘No. Never.’ He made a frustrated sound. ‘Son of a bitch.’ 

‘We are still building a case,’ Chandler said. ‘I don’t want to spook him.’ 

‘Understood,’ Crawford said. ‘But I’m going to look into this. See if I can scrape together enough to get a warrant to search his house.’ 

‘Could you do that without him being aware of it?’ 

‘Normally I’d say yes. But with Doctor Lecter… I don’t know.’ He sounded angry and excited all at once, like he was watching the pieces fall together but he did not like the picture. 

‘There’s another possible complication,’ Chandler said. ‘The day Will Graham said he would leave the country, he instead went to see Lecter. I don’t know what about, but they had an argument.’ 

‘You think he figured it out.’ 

‘It’s possible.’ He bit his lip. ‘I don’t mean to cast doubts on your agent’s integrity,’ he said. ‘But might he have told Lecter about the investigation?’ 

‘He discussed the Chesapeake Ripper with Lecter last time there was a string of murders,’ Crawford said. ‘He may not have been officially consulting, but he has had access to material.’ 

‘Will has been out of touch for two days,’ Chandler pointed out. Again, Crawford sighed. 

‘I don’t know what the hell goes on in that man’s head. He’s seemed on the edge for months. That was why I asked Doctor Lecter for help, to make sure he didn’t fall off it.’ There was a hint of self-reproach in his voice. 

‘What is their relationship like?’ 

‘Quite friendly,’ Crawford said. ‘Will is not usually good with people, but he gets on with Lecter. As for Hannibal, he’s clearly fascinated with Will. Smitten, even.’ He went quiet. 

‘Agent Crawford?’ 

‘I am trying to chose my words,’ he said. ‘If Hannibal’s the Ripper… that changes everything.’ 

‘In what way?’ Chandler asked. He could hear Crawford pacing.

‘I thought that he was helping Will, but he’s been getting worse. But it’s not like Hannibal has been neglecting him. Actually…’ He stopped to think. ‘I just thought of it as professional concern.’ 

‘But now?’ 

Crawford gave a sigh that sounded almost like a growl. 

‘For want of a better word, obsession.’

Chandler decided to leave the subject of Will. 

‘I need more information on Abigail. I need to understand why she’s here, and what it might mean.’ 

‘I don’t know her, really,’ Crawford said. ‘Although I can tell you that Will is too fond of her for his own good. Look, I’ll give you the number of her psychiatrist.’ 

‘Will she talk to me?’ 

‘You can try.’ He read out the name and telephone number. Chandler wrote it down.

‘Thank you.’ 

‘Keep me informed, DI Chandler, and I’ll do the same.’ 

‘Of course. Thank you.’ 

They rang off. Not putting down the receiver in between, he dialled one of the numbers, wondering idly what the accounts department was going to say about his phone bill.

***

When Chandler got off the phone and came out of the office, the whole team was back.

‘There’s been a development,’ Chandler said and erased the mind-map of things connecting Lecter to the London crimes. In its place, he wrote down three names in the shape of a inverted triangle. ‘Hannibal Lecter is our suspect. We have identified the man who had the argument with Lecter that lead to the police being called as Will Graham, the FBI profiler. Also, the girl that Lecter introduced to me and Kent as his daughter is in fact the daughter of the Minnesota Shrike, whose modus operandi we suspect Lecter copied in the Boyle and Shuur murders.’ 

The team, who was always so chatty, now sat in silence, surprised at this new information. 

‘Furthermore,’ Chandler continued, ‘Lecter and Graham were there when Abigail was almost killed by her father. Graham shot the father. Lecter saved Abigail’s life.’ 

‘So one kills her dad, the other saves her life,’ Miles clarified, his tone somewhere between disgust and fascination. 

‘Yes.’ Chandler drew two lines from Abigail’s name, one running to each name above hers. ‘I spoke to Crawford and to Abigail’s psychiatrist, who both said that both Lecter and Graham have turned into paternal figures.’ 

‘How did you get her to talk to you?’ Miles asked, cutting him off. ‘Doesn’t that go against patient-doctor confidentiality?’ 

‘We didn’t strictly discuss her therapy,’ Chandler said. ‘To be honest I think she got so angry at Lecter that she couldn’t stop herself.’ He returned to the subject. ‘Will has been fairly open about the fact that he’s taken Abigail as some kind of surrogate daughter. It appears to be part of the guilt he feels about shooting their suspect for the Minnesota Shrike case. As for Lecter, Abigail has sometimes run away from the clinic where she is staying and ended up at his house. Dr Bloom, who knows both men and is Abigail’s psychiatrist, told me that she thinks Lecter has been irresponsible about the emotional space he is taking up in Abigail’s life.’ 

‘And Graham isn’t?’ Kent said. ‘If someone killed my dad, I wouldn’t want them to try to be my new one.’ 

Chandler was not entirely sure what to answer. 

‘Graham is not the most social person. Dr Bloom made it clear that he has been worried he might become some kind of crutch, or that he might use her as a way of redeeming himself for what he did. He might have placed the boundaries in the wrong place, but he has considered them. Besides, Crawford told me that this is the first time Graham has had to shoot a suspect. That is clearly traumatic. But Lecter was a surgeon. Saving Abigail would have been more or less routine.’ 

‘If I may,’ Ed said. Chandler nodded. ‘Will Graham struggles with social situations, but he is a man of deep empathy. Lecter navigates social situations with ease, but his actions when it comes to Abigail imply that _he_ has no empathy. Exactly what we might expect from a psychopath. Superficial charm and an inability to understand others’ internal lives.’ 

‘Ironic, considering what he does for a living,’ Miles said. 

‘Let’s stay on topic,’ Chandler said, feeling one of their arguments looming. He turned back to the whiteboard and drew a line between Lecter and Graham’s names. ‘Lecter and Graham first met during the Minnesota Shrike case. Since then, they appear to have had rather a complicated relationship. Lecter has been acting as Graham’s therapist. They are also, for lack of a better word, friends. However, Crawford described Lecter as obsessed with Will.’ 

‘What kind of obsessed?’ Miles asked. 

‘Does he want to shag him or eat his heart?’ Mansell added. 

‘Unclear. What we do know is this. Will Graham was at Lecter’s house the day he and I identified the two Chesapeake Ripper victims in Minnesota. The couple next door who called 999 said they thought they heard the word “kill” or “killer”, which was one of the reasons why they called.’ 

‘He went to confront him, then,’ Miles surmised. 

‘Yes, I think he did.’ 

‘He checked out of his hotel the same day,’ Kent said. 

‘And he hasn’t returned to the US,’ Chandler said. ‘I assume the border hasn’t been in touch?’ Miles shook his head. ‘So we don’t know if Abigail was in the country at that point, but she was there on Tuesday, when Lecter intentionally lied about her identity.’ 

‘So what’s happened to Graham?’ Riley asked. 

‘For all we know he could be dead,’ Miles said. 

‘We would have found him by now.’ 

‘He may not dispose of the body of someone he knows in the same way as a stranger’s,’ Ed said.

‘We can’t assume he’s dead,’ Chandler interjected. ‘Not without any proof. But he could be in danger.’ 

Miles spoke again. 

‘Boss, Graham didn’t strike me like a particularly together guy, but he’s clearly not stupid. He must know that it would be an idiotic thing to go and confront someone you think is a serial killer like that.’ 

‘Clever people sometimes do stupid things,’ Chandler said, all too aware of how he had ventured onto that estate where he had encountered the Ripper alone. Nevertheless, Miles had a point. ‘We can’t rule out that there isn’t something else going on. Even if he was overwrought, his police instinct should have overridden that enough to tip us off.’ 

‘Unless he’s completely off his nut,’ Mansell added. 

Chandler barely heard him. The triangle he had drawn was mesmerising. It took him a few moments to realise that he was thinking out loud. 

‘Will Graham falls off the radar just before Abigail Hobbs turns up in London. The last thing we know he did was that he was at Lecter’s residence, where Abigail is staying.’ He bit his lip. ‘Unless everything I’ve been told about Abigail and Graham is wrong, I doubt that she would participate in his murder. She is as attached to him as she is to Hannibal. They are both father figures to her. And it goes the other way too.’ He had to stop himself from starting to pace. ‘If he’s being coerced, she could be leverage. Or…’ He cut himself off mid-speech, thinking through what he was about to say. ‘We can’t be sure of Graham’s part in any of this,’ he said finally. ‘Crawford told me that he was worried about his mental stability, and if his therapist is a murderer… That will not have helped matters.’ 

‘You mean he’s involved,’ Miles said. 

‘We can’t rule it out,’ Chandler said. ‘He could be Lecter’s next victim. He could be dead. Or he could be an accomplice, unwitting or not.’ He looked at the triangle again, then looked at his team. ‘Has anyone come across anything about Lecter’s close relationships?’ 

An awkward silence fell. 

‘Nothing?’ Chandler asked. They shook their heads. ‘Well, we have these two. The surrogate daughter and the object of his obsessions. One has come from the other side of the world, the other has seemingly disappeared.’ He looked back at the board. ‘He might be planning to run,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he wants them with him.’

The team sat silently, waiting for instructions, but none came. Chandler was still staring at the triangle he had drawn. 

‘Alright, back to work,’ Miles said, clapping his hands together. ‘You all have things to get on with.’ 

He stopped short of taking Chandler by the arm, but it was close. It was he who closed the office door behind them. 

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. It took Chandler a few moments to find the words. 

‘I don’t know what to do. We have all this information, but we have nothing. not even enough for a search warrant.’ 

What about Crawford?’ Miles asked. ‘Do they have enough on him to order his arrest?’ 

‘I doubt it. And it wouldn’t be fast enough.’ He looked at his fingernails. ‘Besides, I don’t want him extradited. They’ll execute him.’ 

‘There’s that risk,’ Miles said. ‘But you know, no one has been executed for a federal crime since 2003. They don’t have the right drugs.’ Seeing Chandler’s look, he said: ‘What? I read the papers.’ He sat down, sighing sympathetically. ‘I understand you want to bring him in yourself, boss. But as you said, we don’t have enough yet. It’s not for lack of trying.’ 

‘That does not make me feel better.’ 

‘It wasn’t supposed to. I was stating a fact.’ 

‘What if we’re wrong about him?’ Chandler said. ‘Perhaps he just has bad luck.’ 

‘Worse than ours? Not a chance.’ He leaned forward. ‘Sir, stop second-guessing yourself. It’s not an attractive habit.’ 

Chandler snorted. It was difficult not to second-guess oneself when so much was on the line. He felt like he was navigating through thick fog, thinking he knew where the shallows were but not having anything to steer by. 

Miles got to his feet. 

‘It’s late. You should get yourself home.’ 

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not leaving as long as everyone else is here.’ 

‘Fine. But you should eat something. Shall I make someone go out for something?’ 

Chandler shrugged, giving up. 

‘That’s the spirit, boss.’ 

The door closed. The fog grew thicker around him. He saw no lighthouse, no stars. No longer able to stop himself, he took out a box of drawing pins, emptied it onto the desk and started counting.

***

Night passed quickly. Chandler did not come home until around one, and only slept a few hours. By 7.30, he was back at the station. He had considered staying the night, but the thought of sleeping in an armchair and not being able to shower was too unappealing. The silence of the incident room had been oppressive then, but now, early in the morning, it was calm instead. Soon, the room would fill with movement and noise, but for now, Chandler could stand at the boards, undisturbed, considering the case. When Miles arrived, he did not say anything, knowing better than to disturb him, just left his briefcase at his desk and started making tea. It was not until he poured the water that Chandler turned away from the boards. He had had no great revelations, no eureka moment. Even if he knew where he was going, he could not see a path there.

‘Did you make it home last night?’ Miles asked, offering him a mug. 

‘Yes.’ Chandler blew on the hot tea and watched as his sergeant wandered over to the boards. He came to a stop in front of the photograph of Lecter. They stood in silence for a long time. Eventually, Chandler said: ‘He’ll kill his third victim tonight.’ 

‘Yes,’ Miles said, sighing. ‘Is there anything we can do to hold him? Could we dig up some problem with his visa? Or something in that domestic disturbance report?’ 

Chandler shook his head. 

‘There is nothing in that report that would warrant an arrest, and he doesn’t need a visa. The fact that he entered the country with an American passport doesn’t change the fact that he’s an EU citizen. He has every right to be here.’ He thought about the enquiries they had open. ‘How did Riley get on with the medical supplies shop?’ In the rush of realising Graham’s involvement, that had gotten lost. 

‘Mixed results,’ Miles said. ‘She did find a shop assistant who thought she remembered a man with an odd accent. She couldn’t remember his face, but she said he had a nice-quality coat. It was one of the places that don’t take down names, though.’ 

‘Do you think we could find audio of Lecter’s voice?’ Chandler asked. 

‘We should be able to. There should be a taped lecture or something online.’ 

‘I’d like you to find it. Record some of it onto a dictaphone. Then take Riley and go play it to the shop assistant. See if she recognises the voice.’

‘Good plan.’ 

The phone in Chandler’s office rang. 

‘Excuse me,’ he said. Taking his tea with him, he retreated to his office. He picked up the receiver on the third ring. 

‘DI Chandler.’ 

‘Hello,’ said a familiar woman’s voice on the other end of the line. ‘This is Lizzie Pepper. From forensics.’ Hearing her name, Chandler swallowed hard. Before he had time to say anything, she said: ‘I have something for you. For one of your cases, I mean.’ 

‘But we’ve had all our samples tested already,’ he said. ‘Has there been some mistake?’ 

‘No,’ she said. ‘This was something of a cold hit. There was a stabbing in an alley off Old Castle Street two days ago. The victim fell over a bin and the contents went everywhere. Of course, we collected all the rubbish because there might be forensic traces. Anyway, the reason why I’m calling is because we found the DNA of Tracy Matthews.’ 

Chandler got a plummeting feeling in his stomach. 

‘What kind of DNA?’ he asked. 

‘Blood, on a pair of gloves.’ 

‘Are you certain?’ 

‘Yes,’ Lizzie said. 

‘What about the inside of the gloves?’ 

‘The wearer had taken them off one on top of the other. It had been in contact with the contents of the bin. The other one has blood on both sides, transferred from the outside, but the fingertips hadn’t been turned inside out properly.’ 

‘And?’ he prompted. 

‘There were plenty of skin-cells. The tests just finished. We have a male DNA profile, deposited by the wearer.’ 

His world seemed to narrow to that one word. _Profile._ Not the vague, psychological portrait, but something tangible. Something that would give them a warrant. 

‘DI Chandler?’ 

He shook himself. 

‘Thank you, Miss Pepper - Lizzie. Thank you very much.’ 

He hung up. He could feel his heartbeat in his mouth as the excitement flooded his veins. Without realising it, he had started laughing. There was a tap on the door. 

‘Everything okay, boss?’ 

_No,_ because he felt divorced from his body and very dizzy at the same time. _Yes,_ because they finally had the missing piece in this investigation.

Unable to answer Miles’ question, he said: 

‘We have his DNA.’

***

Chandler could not help feeling that it should have been harder. The magistrate did not make him argue for the warrant, but granted it without question. The sheet of paper, folded in three, felt like such a small thing where it lay in his inner pocket, yet he knew that it was the thing that would make or break their case.

‘It’s not even nine yet,’ Miles observed. ‘I wouldn’t think Lecter would be at work yet. Or do you want to wait until the evening?’ 

‘No, I’m going now,’ Chandler said. 

‘“You”? I’m not letting you go do this alone.’ 

‘I wasn’t going to,’ he said. ‘I’ll take a PC with me.’ Sensing Miles’ annoyance, he explained: ‘If I turn up with my sergeant, it’ll seem important. If I have a PC with me, it’ll look routine.’ 

‘By that logic, you should send Riley or Kent,’ Miles said. ‘DIs don’t usually serve search warrants.’ 

‘I don’t think Lecter would react well to being handed off to a DC. Let’s stroke his ego.’ 

‘Fine. But I’m waiting in the car.’ 

As they entered the station, Chandler was acutely aware of the warrant in his pocket. However insignificant it felt – just a sheet of paper with ink on it – the thing it asked for was even smaller. Just a few cells, a string of chemicals that would prove who had murdered Tracy Matthews and, by extension, at least twenty-three others. 

‘Do you have anyone in mind for this?’ Miles asked. 

‘Not really.’ 

‘I think I know just the man.’ He stalked off and caught the attention of a constable. ‘Powell!’ 

‘Yessir?’ 

‘Are you busy?’ 

‘Not really,’ the PC said. He was a rather unassuming fellow, with a face that looked younger than he probably was. 

‘In that case, come along. We need a uniform.’ 

PC Powell picked up his coat and his helmet and followed Miles. 

‘What for?’ 

‘We’re serving a warrant,’ Miles explained. ‘You’ll be going with DI Chandler.’ 

‘So this is about the Halifax and Matthews murders?’ Powell asked. 

‘Exactly,’ Chandler said. 

‘What do you need me to do, sir?’ 

‘Drive us there and then go with me,’ Chandler said. ‘There's not much more to it.’ 

‘Easy as pie, then,’ Powell said, then adding: ‘Sir.’ 

Chandler could not stop himself from smiling. However menial what he had been tasked to do were, the constable seemed excited about it. 

They took a squad car. Chandler took the passenger seat, while Miles sat in the back. He could sense that Miles wanted to say something. They were almost on Lecter’s street when he leaned forward and said: 

‘You do realise that this is the man who killed an FBI trainee, kept her arm for two years and then led Crawford to it?’ 

‘I’m not going to give him any reason to be nervous,’ Chandler said. ‘Besides, we’re not staying. It’s just a question of making him come with us.’ 

Miles snorted and leaned back again. 

‘It’s here,’ Chandler said, pointing at the house. Powell parked on the side of the road and got out. Chandler unclipped his seat-belt and looked back at Miles. ‘Don’t worry.’ 

He got out and closed the car door behind him. Powell was waiting some distance away, not wanting to get in the way of his superiors arguing. When Chandler left the car, he fell into step behind him, following him up the steps. Chandler rang the bell. He could hear it through the door. A flutter of excitement settled in his stomach. There were footsteps from inside. 

The door opened. Lecter, in his shirt-sleeves, looked from one to the other. Then he smiled politely.

‘DI Chandler,’ he said. ‘Good morning. What a pleasant surprise.’ 

Chandler pulled the warrant out of his pocket. 

‘Dr Lecter, we would like you to come with us to the station with us to leave a sample of your DNA. We have a warrant.’ 

Lecter barely missed a beat. 

‘Of course. May I get my coat?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

He stepped aside. 

‘Please, come in.’ 

Chandler hesitated, but the polite gesture was impossible to ignore. He stepped across the threshold and into the hallway. PC Powell followed. At once, there was a movement in the corner of his eye. He whipped around just as the door slammed shut. Lecter’s left hand was on the lock, turning it. His right arm was wrapped around Powell’s neck. A scalpel was pressed against his throat. The constable stood frozen, staring at Chandler in horror. Chandler met his gaze for a moment, trying to impart calm. Then he looked at Lecter. 

‘Let him go,’ he said, his voice coming out much steadier than he had ever thought possible. All doubt was gone now. The way Lecter held the scalpel against PC Powell’s throat looked almost like second nature to him. ‘No one has to get hurt.’ 

‘Do they not, Inspector?’ Lecter asked. 

‘Just let go of him and come with us,’ Chandler said. ‘There is no need for this.’ 

Lecter’s arm relaxed slightly. PC Powell exhaled, daring to stir. 

The scalpel moved. 

It seemed to happen in grotesque slow-motion. The blade ghosted over the skin, and his throat gaped. A liquid tongue stuck out, spitting itself down his front. The surprised look on Powell’s face relaxed, his eyes already blank. 

He fell. The blood kept flowing onto the floor. Chandler stared at the crumpled form that had once been a human being. He felt unable to breathe, as if it was his windpipe that had been severed, his brain that was drained of blood. The taste of iron was strong in his mouth. Had he bitten his tongue? It struck him that it was not his blood, but PC Powell’s. Now he felt specks of blood on his face too. He must be covered in it.

Only self-preservation made him look up from the body. Lecter stood poised, his back very straight, almost like a ballet dancer after a particularly impressive piece. The only thing to show what he had done was the scalpel and the thin line of blood on his right-hand cuff. With his free hand, he reached out and put the chain on the door. He smiled. 

‘Give me the scalpel.’ Chandler reached out his hand. 

‘I am not a fool,’ Lecter said. ‘I’ll do no such thing.’ He extended the blade a little, bringing it level with Chandler’s throat. ‘Your constable died quickly. If one knows how to cut someone’s throat accurately, the blood leaves the brain so fast the person barely has time to realise what has happened. Perhaps I’ll be slower with you. I’d hate to waste the opportunity.’ 

‘I have colleagues waiting for me outside,’ Chandler said. ‘Put down the knife and come quietly. Otherwise, they’ll know something is wrong and they’ll call in armed response.’ 

Lecter simply looked amused. 

‘It is refreshing, knowing that you won’t just shoot me,’ he said. ‘That is one of the downsides with settling in America, for a man of my vocation. Everyone is armed.’ 

‘Your vocation?’ Chandler repeated. ‘Is that what you think it is?’ 

‘Why, it is not a hobby,’ Lecter said with a smile. ‘It is a form of art.’ 

‘You’re talking about murder.’ 

Lecter’s smile widened. 

‘Yes, I am. Many more than you know, too. Are you curious?’ 

Chandler hesitated. He was, and perhaps he could distract him if he let him talk. Lecter seemed to sense his thoughts.

‘I am not going to give you some kind of monologue, Detective Inspector, telling you everything I have done. I have a boat to catch.’ 

‘Listen to me,’ Chandler said. ‘If you run, and the authorities catch up with you in another country, they might well extradite you to the States. You’re wanted for federal crimes - they’ll sentence you to death. But if you give yourself up now, you’ll be tried here and you’ll live.’ 

‘In a cage,’ Lecter spat, something flaring up in his eyes. ‘That is no life.’ 

‘You’ll be humanely treated.’ 

‘You are starting to bore me, Detective Inspector Chandler.’ He jabbed his hand out. Chandler recoiled from the tip of the scalpel, raising his hands placatingly. ‘Your platitudes about my rights will not make me give myself up.’ Lecter’s eyes moved from Chandler to a point beyond his shoulder. The floorboards creaked. ‘Are you ready?’ 

‘Yes,’ said a voice from behind. Chandler did not want to look away from Lecter, but that voice made him. Only a few feet away from him stood Will Graham. At his side was Abigail Hobbs, her hand in his. 

‘Will,’ Chandler said, ‘what are you doing?’ 

Graham looked at him briefly, then back at Lecter. He met his eye in a way Chandler had not seen him do before. 

When Graham spoke, it was clearly meant for Chandler. 

‘It’s the only way. I can’t let him go alone.’ 

‘He’s a murderer.’ 

There was no look of shock or surprise on Graham’s face. 

‘I know. But so am I.’ He pressed Abigail’s hand. ‘I can’t run from my responsibilities.’ 

Lecter stepped closer to Will. 

‘Go,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll meet you at the rendezvous point.’ 

They looked at each other for a moment. Then Will turned and left, towards the back of the house. Abigail followed him, still holding his hand. Chandler looked back at Lecter. His fingers shifting around the scalpel. His eyes were cold again, his mouth pulled up in a small smile.

‘I’m not going to let you escape,’ he said. 

‘Of course not,’ Lecter said. ‘And I’m not going to let you live.’

‘You’re just making this worse for yourself.’ 

‘Am I? I have already killed one police officer. Does it make it that much worse if I kill another?’ Lecter asked. ‘This must be a strangely welcome scenario for you, Detective Inspector. If I kill you, at least they will not blame you for my escape. You will be a hero. So much better than to be the Metropolitan Police’s most high-profile failure. It really is the best-case scenario for you. Having spent so much time trying to be your father, you will at least get a better death than he did.’ 

Chandler felt something quite different from the fear the blade was giving him. 

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said. 

‘You have always tried to avoid it,’ Lecter continued, ‘but haven’t you felt that it was inevitable? Except if you were to disappear, no one would notice you were gone. There’s no one to miss you. They wouldn’t realise what you’d done until they found your body in the river. So this is better. You’ll die with some dignity.’ 

Chandler wanted to answer, but he could not find the words. Now, Lecter grinned. 

‘Come, come, Detective Inspector. You investigate me - is it not fair that I investigate you? To be honest, I had hoped it would be harder. But you are not subtle. There was no sport to it.’ 

_Don’t engage,_ he told himself. _Don’t let him get to you._

He extended his hand. 

‘Hannibal,’ he said, ‘give me the scalpel.’ 

He pounced. Chandler threw himself sideways. His shoes slid in the blood, but he kept his balance. Whipping around, desperate to keep his eyes on his attacker, he backed down the hallway. Lecter sprinted towards him, the scalpel whistling through the air as he wielded it. In the living room, Chandler looked around in search for something to use as a weapon – a vase or a poker – but the only decorative item in the impersonal room was a shallow bowl with marbles. He pushed it off the sideboard, sending the glass spheres bouncing off the floor. It barely slowed down his pursuer. He looked different now, not like the sweet-shop owner had done, when his alter had stepped in, but rather transformed. Superficially, it was still the same handsome face, but the set of it was nothing like when he had opened the door. There was something animal in his eyes now. 

Still his movements were not frenzied. He moved with purpose and precision, the scalpel an extension of his arm. He lunged, one foot back and the other forward, as if the short blade was a sword. Chandler threw himself backwards, hitting the wall. Lecter shifted his weight and pushed himself forward. Chandler ducked. Right next to his ear, Lecter’s right hand connected with the wall. He hissed, but Chandler could still hear the sound of thin metal snapping. Taking advantage of his distraction and his own lower position, he tackled him. They fell away from the wall, one on top of the other. The scalpel handle fell out of Lecter’s hand. Its blade was still buried in the wall plaster. For a moment, Lecter seemed to have had the air knocked out of him, but when Chandler raised himself up to strike him, he quickened. He sat up with such speed that his forehead connected with Chandler’s chin. It was enough to give him an opportunity to squirm out from under him. 

Ignoring the way his bleeding tongue throbbed, Chandler got to his feet, bringing his guard up. Lecter grinned. 

‘Queensbury rules?’ 

Chandler let the punches fall, three in quick succession. Lecter blocked the first jab with his forearm, but the cross and following hook landed. He could feel both their skin breaking on impact. His knuckles coursed with pain. The two punches seemed to have got Lecter off-balance. Perhaps he could knock him out, or at least incapacitate him long enough that he could get to the front-door. He swung his right fist upwards, towards Lecter’s chin. 

Before it could connect, Lecter covered the fist in his hand. The confusion he thought he had seen after the last two punches was gone, dropped like a mask. His eyes were as sharp as ever. For a long moment, their hands strained against one another, Chandler’s pushing upwards, Lecter’s pushing down. Then the tension drained from Chandler’s muscles. The pressure from Lecter’s hand changed, forcing his arm back. A foot hooked behind his leg and pulled. They fell. 

Lecter’s free hand grabbed Chandler by the throat even before they hit the floor. He kicked at him, but he straddled his legs, making it impossible to reach him. Letting go of his hand, no longer a fist, he took Chandler’s throat in his grip. He felt his thumbs pushing ever harder against his larynx and his fingers tightening around his neck. He grabbed at Lecter’s hands, digging his nails into his skin, but his grip did not relax. All Chandler could see was his face, savage and concentrated, his eyes alight with some feeling he could not name. Breathing was impossible. The edges of his vision blackened. An arm’s length above him, Lecter smiled and tightened his grip. The blackness swallowed him.

***

The nature of consciousness was changing. Sound was forming inside his ears. Light was stinging his optic nerve. Most of all, he was in pain.

When he first opened his eyes, he felt a hand on his bare arm. Someone must have removed his suit. 

‘Easy there, boss.’ 

He tried to turn his head, but it was difficult. Miles leaned closer, coming into his field of vision. 

‘You’re in hospital,’ he explained. ‘You’ve been unconscious for a few hours.’ 

Chandler tried to speak, but no words came. 

‘Better not try to talk,’ Miles said and smiled. ‘You’re pretty bruised up. You were out cold when I got to you. I thought you were a gonner for a bit there. They say you’ll be okay, though.’ 

Chandler raised his hand instead and brought his first two fingers against his thumb. Miles dug into his pockets and retrieved a pen and a notepad. He placed the paper on the bed and the pen in Chandler’s grip. It felt foreign in his hands, and it took a few moments before he could start writing. When he did, all he could manage were shaky capitals. 

_PC P_

‘PC Powell was dead when we got through the door,’ Miles said. ‘There was nothing that could be done.’ 

_LEC_

Miles sighed.

‘He got away. But we’re patrolling anyway he might leave the country.’ 

_BOAT_

‘He said something about a boat?’ 

Candler tried to nod, but regretted it. Still, Miles understood. 

‘I’ll make sure to pass it along. Even if he does get out of the country, he’ll find it hard to disappear. It’s all out in the open now. His face is on every paper and every TV station. Europol and Interpol have been notified, and the FBI has put him on their most wanted list. Crawford and his men are searching his house with a fine-tooth comb as we speak.’ 

Chandler let the pen fall. Writing took took too long. With a huge effort, he spoke.

‘Graham and Abigail went with him.’ It was not much more than a croak. He barely recognised his own voice. ‘I think Graham turned.’ 

Miles nodded gravely and got his phone out. 

‘I’ll make sure his photo is put out too. He might lead us to Lecter. We can make a strong case for obstruction of justice and assisting an offender.’ He paused, tapping out a text, clearly to one of the DCs. ‘I think that should go for Abigail Hobbs as well. As far as we know, she was a willing participant.’ 

Chandler agreed. The precise facts would have to be established later. The first priority was to find Lecter and his associates. He was all too aware that he was not going to do the finding for a while though. He managed to turn his head enough to catch sight of the clock on the wall. It was past nine. Miles had been conservative when he had said he had been out for a few hours. He had been unconscious the entire day. He sank back against the pillows. The pain was forming ghost hands throttling him. 

‘You don’t want to stay,’ he rasped. ‘You should be with your family.’ 

Miles put away his phone and leaned back in his chair. 

‘Boss, I’m not going anywhere.’


End file.
